My sister called me the other day. She wanted to let me know that I had once more been merciless and cruel in my relations with our parents.

“They say there’s a lot of anger in you,” she said. “It makes them mad. It hurts their feelings. They think you blame them for everything. They think you say rude things about them to your therapist. They think that’s the whole reason you see a therapist.They think an irrevocable rift has opened between you. It’s gaping, they say. It’s a valley. It’s a mountain gorge. They think it’s unfair. They think they did the best they could. You should tell them that you don’t really blame them. That would be a nice thing for you to do.” 

“Wow,” I said. “That’s a really interesting idea. I’ll take that into account.”

I hung up and walked to the lake. The day was cool. My beautiful Turkish therapist was on vacation. A seagull looked upon me with disgust. I sat down and stared at the still water, which resembled a big pan of Jell-O, and then I called my boyfriend and said, “I’ll fucking kill them, I’ll stab them with a pair of scissors, I’ll staple them in the face, I want them to die so that I can have all their money, I want all their money so that I can pursue my dream of becoming a famous artist, I want to become a famous artist so that everyone will admire, respect, and envy me, I want to be admired, respected, and envied so that I can OWN A HOME and AGE GRACEFULLY.”