Okay. Let's hope this recorder works, right? I'd write a letter but my handwriting is like crap.
(Nervous coughing, tapping.)
Okay. So. This is for my future baby.
You know, when I was in the middle of my teens I used to wisha desperate, sobbing, emo girl wishthat I'd wake up on a white sheet bed and there'd be a doctor telling my mom that I wouldn't make it. I wanted that so badly, I just wanted to be gone, I was begging to be gone but I couldn't get the courage to do anything because I was a coward. Or maybe I was just smart enough to know not to. I'm still not sure.
Worse was the fact that my mom knew I was buying scar cream and she didn't say anything. I think I made it obvious on purpose, leaving out razors and stuff like that because I wanted her to care, internally. I wanted her to say something like, "Oh Moe! What're you doing to yourself? Of course I care!" Then there'd be some Disney-style tears and hugging and we'd be the happiest people on earth.
but you know what? She didn't. She didn't say anything. She didn't want to say anything because she was too absorbed in her own sad life and she never thought of helping me with mine.
But I guess that's how it usually goes, you know?
I don't want you to think that's how it usually goes.
So, I made a promise, the kind that people usually think up when they're done fighting their emotional monster and they just want everything to be over.
I will never forget.
It's not that I don't want to grow up 'cause I do, really, but the memory of living alone for the first bit of my life still haunts me and I try to swallow up all the ghosts but it's just
Okay, okay. I'm gonna make sense now. Gimme a second.
I remember reading that people usually overstock on things they didn't have in their childhood, when they're older and they're off by themselves.
Please remind me of this when I'm old and losing my head, okay?
Love, Moe. Er, your mom. You know what I mean.
See you in a couple months.