I'm suffering from the 'Bambi' Complex, if you can't say anything nice then don't say anything at all.
I have a sharp tongue that could blister paint from the Sydney Harbour Bridge and I'd feel right at home on that planet of Frank Herbert's where they use words to kill.
So internalising the anger that's threatened to destroy what's left of our small family has left me with a heart attack in my future and a tongue glued to the roof of my mouth.
Suffice to say, I could slap my sister 6 ways from Sunday and boot the BrickOutHouse into the Monday after.
I am allowed to give my mother money to spend when she goes out for coffee and you standing there with a cigarette ($21 a packet?) is so hypocritical.
I do have to go through her things carefully and slowly since no-one wants to help except to hire a skip and chuck the lot.
I will not throw out her clothes in case she wants to wear a particular one she remembers.
Telling me I let her overspend on bed linen while you're making off with the doona covers, the new duckdown doona and her pillow cases (40 of them so you tell me later) earned you a mental kicking.
Tellling me you want the mess out of the house when your wardrobe is the lounge room floor went down a treat.
Sorry you're whacked because you've been carting out stuff for the hard rubbish for hours but didn't I tell you to start putting it in the carport weeks ago?
I could go on but the tranqulizers are kicking in and I'm starting to mellow.