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Am I going to kill my mother? My Aunt Ty died. Now, two other aunts on that same side of the family have cancer. These three aunts have at least one thing in common: they always swore that there’d been a mistake and I was their daughter. My aunts soon to be dead or already so. And I wonder, if I’ve killed my other mothers, am I going to kill my own mother.

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WTF, world. I am enraged that someone planted a bomb in our head of the medical board’s car (I’m an Arkansan, dear reader). Now, he may or may not be a good person or a good doctor–I know nothing about him–but no one deserves to be blown up as they head to work. I am glad he has survived and hope he recovers as well as he can. He’s lost one of his eyes, has been burned, and suffered shrapnel injuries. He may lose the other eye.

I’m angry because I have been at the bedside of the dying, watching a family member suffer through the fear and pain of facing her morality. One of my former students was murdered this year. I’ll be damned if I don’t say I hate anyone who would murder another person.

This week, one of my former students was killed in what may have been a random act of violence. Except when is violence random? I go back and click one of the news websites over and over to see his face. To remember. I hate that two lives were extinguished, and four others may follow shortly if the suspects become convicted murderers and receive the death penalty.

 

More than anything, I want to rewind time and say to the shooter(s), don’t do what you’re about to do.

SOB with me

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