Stop pissing in my pocket and tell me it's raining!

Here is a wee ditty from the keyboard of the worlds biggest girls blouse. Mrs Howling blubbering pants. Tis I.

I know I have whinged on this subject in the past but please when is this dodgy malfunctioning emotional see-saw going to end? Yesterday prime example, I was absolutely beside myself over that south american baby fished from the river, and has consumed my thoughts since.

I am baffled as to how the mother of that child could dress the babe in all her finery and then allow her to sail away to almost certain death.

It lead me to thoughts on my own life. Poxy hormones. How could a mother say goodbye to her child? My birth mother told me a tale on how I came to the family I grew up with. I call it a tale as it is so far fetched and even though it has been proven to me to be true, it has always seemed a little unbelievable. Until now.

In the back of my mind I guess I only half believed her tale. The half that did not believe her, also thought badly of her for sending me up the river. How could she.

But she did'nt, she never said goodbye, she never got the chance.

I turned my back on her nine years ago. She has no idea I got married, travelled or that she is a grandmother. I have no idea even if she lives. Occasionally I try and search for her via the web but I am so inexperienced it is a waste of time. Besides she has changed her name a couple of times in her life, it makes sense she would do it again.

I guess although we build bridges, occaisionally some bastard puts up a toll booth.