My mother hates me. That's the only explanation.
It started so harmlessly. Picture it: a cool day in North Carolina, and I hadn't brought enough warm clothes with me when I came home, so I asked my mother to borrow a sweatshirt. Sure no problem, here you go, and then WHAM. The old sucker punch, the one-two hit to both eyes. 'Oh, honey, I love you so much. Hey, so-and-so, go get the camera. I want a picture with my favorite oldest daughter.' I was bamboozled, there is no other way to put it. No sooner had she gotten a camera aimed and her arms around me when the ungodly howling began.
"WAAAAAAA-HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! YOU'RE WEARING A DUKE SWEATSHIRT AND I'M GOING TO GET PHOTOGRAPHIC PROOF! I'M GOING TO FRAME IT AND PUT IT ON THE WALLS OF OUR HOUSE!!! YOU WILL NEVER LIVE THIS DOOOOWWWWWNNN!!!"
I struggled and protested to no avail.
BLOG, I AM A CAROLINA GIRL. THIS COULD END ME.
I'd like to take this opportunity to also denounce my father, who did nothing to stop it, as well as my little sister's dog Theo (look in the bottom corner) who, rather than springing to my defense like a fanged avenger, quietly snuck away.
I've heard of some dastardly parental acts in my day, and while it's true that my mother never sank so low as to force me to watch The Watcher In The Woods, nonetheless, she clearly has no love in her heart.