In response to a response

Wait, wait, wait. A few days ago, I wrote about the two ideologies of get-well-soon stuff, and compared Catholicism to West Coast rap...and I expressed my happiness that my circle of friends and family somehow straddled the line between the two. Ok. If anyone read the comment my mom made on my second-to-last entry, it should become painfully clear to you that there's a reason I can enjoy both sides of that coin. In one sentence, my mom implies (infers?) that I'm both an alien and a blessing. This is the milk upon which I was weaned. Are there any questions about my character, behavior, sense of humor, ANYTHING about who I am, that are not somehow clarified by reading the few words my mom wrote? Read it, synthesize it, and really consider it. You're reading my blog, so it stands to reason that you want to know something about my life that you don't already. Alright-- so given that, take a moment and really read what she wrote. I can guarantee you that wasn't an idle response because she's very discerning when it comes to words. In, what?, 4 or 5 sentences, my mom is funny, self-deprecating, sweet, humble, and authentic. Now, I've had that diction, tone, structure, and Jan-ness playing in my brain since before cognitive thoughts had started to form. My dad's relationship with words is as follows, read carefully: he can tell you, very succinctly, with utmost diplomacy and genuine kindness, to go fuck yourself-- and a) you'll want to befriend him immediately and b) you'll feel instant remorse for wasting his time. (According to my mom, my dad's mantra is: "Don't tell me about the labor pains, just tell me what the baby weighs.")

Is it any wonder I love to write using the voice that those two people gave me?