the fofura of being troxa

You're a blessing in disguise, and you're disguised as a crazy person. I could stop writing right now because basically that's what I wanted to say. You're crazy. Seriously, there should be a contest of best disguise for a blessing, you'd win. You're batshit crazy. And you drive me crazy sometimes. I really don't understand why I can't simply tell you to fuck off and do whatever the fucking crazy shit you want to do. I don't know why I'm always worried about you, why do I care so much.

But then again, we never really know the meaning of anything until we get to the end. And the end usually means death, so I'm guessing neither of us are in a hurry to fully understand the complexity of this, whatever this is, this strange feeling of companionship that we share.

Well then, the good news is I have decided to embrace it, to just go with this maternal instinct that appeared out of nowhere, and to take care of you without expecting you to do anything for me at all. Being your batshit crazy self is already enough for me to work on my selflessness, to make be a better person. Maybe that's God preparing me to be a better mother in the future. Maybe that's God punishing me. I guess we'll never know.

So go ahead baby girl, take me for granted.

I am granted.