Then the button on my favorite shirt popped off.
Now, my eyeliner decides it has a mind of its own. If I had any choice in the matter, I'd stay in my comfy bed and eat warm chocolate chip cookies all day.Brit, come down," I faintly hear my mom yelling from the foyer.My first instinct is to ignore her, but that never gets me anything but arguments,headaches, and more yelling.
"I'll be there in a sec," I call down, hoping I can get this eyeliner to go on straight and be done with it.Finally getting it right, I toss the eyeliner tube on the counter, double and triple check myself in the mirror, turn off my stereo, and hurry down the hallway. My mom is standing at the bottom of our grand staircase, scanning my outfit. I straighten.I know, I know. I'm eighteen and shouldn't care what my mom thinks. But you haven't lived in the Ellis house. My mom has anxiety.
Not the kind easily controlled with little blue pills. And when my mom is stressed, everyone living with her suffers. I think that's
why my dad goes to work before she gets up in the morning, so he doesn't have to deal with, well, her."Hate the pants, love the belt," Mom says, pointing her index finger at each item. "And that
noise you call music was giving me a headache. Thank goodness it's off."
"Good morning to you, too, Mother," I say before walking down the stairs and giving her a peck on the cheek. The smell of my mom's strong perfume stings my nostrils the closer Iget. She already looks like a million bucks in her Ralph Lauren Blue Label tennis dress. No
one can point a finger and criticize her outfit, that's for sure.
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