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I deserve a fucking medal for not killing my mother yet.

Whenever my life starts to improve even the slightest bit-- I can always count on my mother to swoop in and shit all over it. She can't read anything beyond middle-school level, but her one incomprable talent is her timing. She knows exactly when to berate me and sink my self-esteem for maximum impact.

I finally realized why she is such a bitch to me. It's because(and I say this without any conceit, I'm really just stating the facts here) I am prettier than her and I am smarter and much more educated than she is. Oh, and let's not forget my superhuman ability to elude the fat gene she passed onto me. I have managed to stay below a 100 lbs for the majority of my life, through sheer dogged anoerexing and discipline. And she can't fucking stand it.

And her bitterness is something I can't understand. If I had a daughter, I would hope she's prettier than me, smarter than me-- hell, I hope she bypasses the majority of my genes and takes on all of her father's. I want her to be better than me. This is Darwinian, how the survival of our species works. The medical definition of genetic fitness is prognosis for future progeny that is more viable and more advantageous than the filial generation.

But all of this is completely lost on my mother. She is the queen of passive-aggression, and one of her favorite pasttimes is calling me and leaving me these thinly-veiled insults in my voicemail.

I scare myself when I hate my own mother this much. I really have tried, especially these past couple of months, to really forge some kind of relationship with her. But I can't. I'm talking about someone who actually resents me for being better than her. And I can't fucking help it! It took a crazy amount of effort and persistence for me to get out of her trailer park world, and everything I have today, I have because I made it or I got it myself. She hasn't done jack shit for me or my well-being.

Ugh, I hate how this entry has turned into something all about my mother. Sorry.

Yesterday on Newbury Street, I was waiting for Elizabeth so we could have lunch together, and a shady looking guy came up to me and told me he wanted to photograph me. Oh, pukey puke. He gave me his card and even a link to his portfolio, but jesus, if I wanted to be gratuitously naked, I needn't look further than my own apartment, as my own roomie is one of those so called professional
"photographers." But he wants to pay me $100 an hour for me to pose, so I'm thinking about it. I have to talk to my roomate about it first, maybe I can talk him into paying me more.

Anyway, Elizabeth and I are slowly rekindling our friendship. It's weird, because I really looked up to her and she sort of cut me out of her life without telling me what I did to offend her. She still hasn't told me, and I haven't bothered asking, but she was sweet when I saw her yesterday and this weekend she is coming over with last season's stuff she doesn't want. Nothing better than free clothes.

She also invited me to go to East Hampton with her next weekend. I really want to go, but I'm embarassed at not having a decent bikini. What a stupid reason for not wanting to go to the Hamptons, right? I'll probably go, even if I have to wear a $19.99 one piece from Target.