2003-04-29 || 11:18 p.m.

|| mummy. ||

i periodically resolve to grow my hair out to the exact cut of my mother's on her wedding day. my color is the exact same as hers was when she was my age, and in a few weeks i'll have to dye it again to retain that shade. when my mother was my age she was taking blood and administering morphine in a hospital in redondo beach, dabbing runs in her stockings with spit and letting china patterns and the final details of her wedding dance around in her head. my mother is small. there is a picture of her and my dad standing together in catalina, and i am always drawn to her size. she is in corduroy pants with hips i will never have, and i imagine her running around her apartment in boy-cut underwear in the exact same way as shelley duvall in annie hall. whenever i look at that picture i can't believe i came from her. i have to look to her left at my father to remember the almighty power of genetics and the dominant and recessive and wild cards such as freckles and shyness and a sweet tooth.

i find that over the years i have unconsciously made strides to be more like her, and i try and try and try but don't think i can get very far in this frame and these compulsions.

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