Friday, April 24, 2015


I love my family. Sometimes they KILL me. Case in point, my mom asked where she was when I last called her on her cell. I just couldn't. It didn't help that I had just pulled up to a yard covered in trash.  I gave up that day.

But then we have conversations like this:

Did I mention I basically have a mohawk now?

And I KNOW we talk about things that other mother/daughters, fathers/daughters, or sisters don't talk about. I've mentioned conversations that I've had with my family to friends and they can not believe that we talk openly about those subjects. And I love it. I love all the conversations, even the frustrating ones.

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