Some coping mechanisms die hard.
On consideration, it isn’t so much about being a brat. The reality is that I like being your indignant girl, your little unwilling martyr. I like letting outrage carry me through the things you do to me until it exonerates me from the shared guilt of the mess we’ve made. Until I’m pure and clean and right like a perfect little blade. It’s true: I don’t just want to play the victim, I need to be the victim.
Spoiler alert, I’m baby.
Okay but like, impossible.
“First you ask for fancy underwear. Then you complain that they reveal your private parts?
Lift up your legs, little girl. Daddy is going to teach you about gratitude.”
“Tell them the truth, babydoll. You whine just because you’re hoping someone will come along and make it much, much worse.”
In which someone new and fun and mean learns that I have a particular brand and I’m damn good at sticking to it.
One of my favorite games.
Oh gosh oh gosh oh gosh.