S Pink Premium Pointer Bio-Tagebuch (nur 3% Fantasie): The M.O.M. (moronic obnoxious matriarch)
People used to remind me that "not everything's either black or white", but that doesn't mean they don't exist.
Because, where is all that grey coming from?

The M.O.M. (moronic obnoxious matriarch)

Sonntag, 06. Oktober 2013, 01:57 Uhr
Die alte Frau kommt gerade von den Festivitäten rund um den Dirndlkirtag zurück. Verhältnismäßig nüchtern sogar. Merkt man daran, dass die zahlreichen Anekdoten, des an diesem Abend Passierten, ziemlich zusammenhängend wiedergegeben werden - ein Novum. 
Die Dorfjugend kokst sich die Birne weg, daneben sitzen Polizisten, die privat unterwegs waren, und rühren keinen Finger. War mit Abstand die interessanteste Geschichte. Alles andere war nur belangloses Zeug von Leuten, die ich entweder nie gekannt oder schon fast fünfzehn Jahre nichtmehr gesehen habe.
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Dienstag, 08. Oktober 2013, 08:01 Uhr
Die alte Frau macht schon wieder vermehrt Druck oder versucht es zumindest. Ich soll doch endlich wieder zum Arbeitsamt und zur Bank und bla und bla und fucking bla. Es nervt unsäglich.
Ein Standardsatz, der diesem Musterbeispiel an Ignoranz und Dummheit immerwieder gerne einfällt ist: Bist genauso deppat wia da Voda., oder sogar Nu deppada wia da Voda..
Bist deppat? Hod da Voda an Steßa z´weng g´mocht? wird auch gerne verwendet.
Mein Vater war bestimmt kein Engel, aber so eine respektlose Scheiße ist echt grenzwertig. So war es immer schon. Zumindest ab dem Zeipunkt, an dem ich ein Alter erreicht hatte, bei dem es ihnen egal war, was ich höre, sehe oder sonst irgendwie mitbekomme und was nicht.
Bei solchen Kommentaren soll man sich wundern, dass es mir weitestgehend egal wäre, wenn die Frau einfach verrecken würde? Da soll man sich fragen, was ich gegen die Frau habe? Ich hasse sie nicht, auch wenn es hart an der Grenze ist. Ich hasse sie nur, wenn sie mich nervt. Gut, das ist im Prinzip sobald sie irgendwas macht. Doch ansonsten fühle ich nichts für … dieses Experiment der Natur, dieses Worst Case-Szenario für jeden Geduldsfaden.
Ich will nur meine Ruhe. Lasst mich einfach in Ruhe. Ihr könnt es oder wollt es nicht verstehen? Gut, aber dann lasst mich in Ruhe. Ich will mit eurem Schwachsinn nichts zu tun haben.
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Dienstag, 08. Oktober 2013, 14:23 Uhr
Meine Mom geht mir schon den ganzen Tag wieder sonstwohin. Habe ihr jetzt eine schriftliche „Stellungnahme“ zu meiner Situation und meinem Verhalten verfasst. Wenn sie´s danach noch immer nicht checkt, dann fällt mir dazu nichtsmehr ein.
Das Thema Selbstmord habe ich allerdings weggelassen. Weniger aus Rücksicht ihr, als viel mehr mir selbst gegenüber. Will mir ihre Heulerei etc. ersparen. Außerdem wird man nach sowas ja durchaus gerne schnell mal von ein paar netten Herren abgeholt und zwischenzeitlich in ein neues zu Hause gebracht. Ehrlich, der Frau traue ich das zu. Auf die Reaktion bin ich trotzdem gespannt, auch wenn ich mir einen Teil schon denken kann.
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Donnerstag, 10. Oktober 2013, 19:59 Uhr
Sitze nun schon ein paar Minuten hier und hadere damit, meiner Mom den Brief zu geben, den ich vor zwei Tagen geschrieben habe. Habe ihn handschriftlich verfasst. Eine digitale Abschrift ist als „NochmalZumMitschreiben“ irgendwo unter meinem „Personal Stuff“. Habe das Gefühl, damit alles nur noch schlimmer zu machen, sofern das überhaupt noch möglich ist. Ach, was sage ich da? Wenn ich eines in den letzen zwei Jahren gelernt habe, dann, dass es immer noch schlimmer geht. Genau darum zögere ich. Andererseits, warum zögere ich? Wollte ich es ohnehin nicht jeden wissen lassen? Will ich es nicht ohnehin jedem ins Gesicht schreien?
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20:11 Uhr.
Done (Wohl nicht zuletzt dank inzwischen zwei Bier im System.).
Jetzt bin ich gespannt. Nein, eigentlich will ich es gar nicht wissen. Trotzdem spielt auch ein kleines Bisschen Neugier mit, ob mich die Frau eventuell noch irgendwie überraschen kann. Habe ihr gesagt, dass sie den Zettel ruhig kopieren und jedem in die Hand drücken kann, der fragt, was mit mir los ist. So eine Art persönlicher Flyer.
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20:31 Uhr.
Anscheinend habe ich das Schreiben schonend genug verfasst, dass mir nun die weitestgehend gleichgültige Haltung entgegengebracht wird. Nicht unerwartet. Zweifle aber auch daran, dass sie es jetzt eher nachvollziehen kann als vorher. Allerdings muss man es vielleicht auch erstmal eine Zeit lang wirken lassen. Die Frau ist eben nicht die schnellste. Ich weiß ja, woher ich das habe. Mal sehen, was daraus noch wird.
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Wednesday, October 23rd, 2013, 7.47pm
My mom keeps annoying me again. She just doesn´t get it. For her it´s all about the money.
“Why don´t you get yourself registered as being unemployed? Why don´t you get yourself some support from social services? Why do you keep giving away your money to the state?“
I didn´t say a single word. Would be pointless anyway, now more than ever.
“You can´t just spend your whole life sitting in a room with your laptop. Don´t you think about me from time to time, how nerve wrecking it is?“
No, woman, I don´t give a fuck about you. There simply is no way for me to appreciate what you do. Don´t push me. Just leave me alone.
I hate to be pushed.
It´s not like I wouldn´t know what I´d have to do.
It´s just that I don´t know what to do.
I´m so obsessed with knowing things, when in fact not knowing is one of the best things that can happen to you. As long as you don´t know for sure, there are all the more possibilities for something beautiful to happen. The more you know, the more insecure you get, because over time you´ve learned that these possibilities are rather small, and easy to miss. Also, the already existing amazing stuff is quite delicate and can be laid to waste pretty easily in almost no time. It just hurts.
… and the older you get, the more you know. A vicious cycle.
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Monday, October 28th, 2013, 7.11pm
I´m scared. Not a nice feeling to wake up to.
I somehow want to do everything myself, on my own, but not by myself. Sadly, that´s exactly what I am - alone. I have no one to stengthen my back and/or hold my hand. All I´ve got is a tiny little glimpse of hope that it will all turn out just fine sooner or later, more or less.
Right, there´s still that … woman, but I couldn´t care less about her and her intentions to help me. Besides, she´s my mother, as much as I hate to admit it. So I don´t think that I have to point it out that I don´t want this … person to watch over my every move anymore, let alone to hold my hand. But I do enjoy letting her pay and do some of the dirty work for me. Again, not because I appreciate it, but because it´s fun to use her. She can´t provide me with the support I need/want, but that alone doesn´t make her useless. I would be stupid not to take what she offers me, but that doesn´t mean that I have to like her for it. And I don´t. Mainly because she simply doesn´t understand what happened to me. Everything is going to sort itself out, as soon as the financials are taken care of. That´s what she believes. I have some serious doubts about that. Well, we´ll see. Fact is that I have to do something, as long as I´m stuck in this world and with this life of mine. So why not use the time and try to do something useful?
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Sunday, November 17th, 2013, 1.07pm
The old woman decided yesterday evening to take her medication with a side of red wine.
Then she started to pointlessly tap around on her cell phone. She always does that. We may never know why. Any manufacturer's ambition to take the user by the hand and guide him through an easy-to-understand interface by pointing out only the most basic options available, with nice big icons and all that, is hopelessly lost on her. She's as clueless as a monkey when handling a technical device, and that's when she's sober. Yesterday, as I mentioned before, she wasn't. At one point she opened the door to my room, intoxicated like a German WWII submarine captain on vacation in France, and asked if I could call her on her phone. She wanted to check on something, because she certainly messed up some of the settings again. She always does that. We may never know why.
Anyway, I had my headphones on. It's a mystery to me why some people keep talking to you when you have your headphones on, and then get angry at you as soon as you take them off and ask, Huh, so they have to repeat what they just said instead of keeping their GODDAMN PIE HOLE SHUT FOR JUST A FUCKING SECOND LONGER from the begin with, until you're actually capable of listening to them.
Aaanyhow, I called her, even though I knew that it wouldn't matter if I don't, 'cause in her condition she wouldn't have noticed it anyway. There was no ringtone to be heard from any of the rooms, nor did she answere the call.
What I thought was this, Nevermind the fucked up settings, because she surely forgot what she asked you to do as soon as she closed the door behind her, angrily nagging about your 'huh'. And tomorrow she's gonna discover a missed call on her phone and wants to know why you called her. 
(No, I don't actually talk to myself in third person, I just write it that way. Makes it seem more … I don't know. Just carry on reading, would ya?)
Guess what.
Exactly that's what happened just now. She added that “the phone was acting up again yesterday”. I know for a fact that it works perfectly fine, because I'm the one who, for instance, makes it stop to play some random ringtone in a loop when she managed to get lost in the media player menus again.
On a sidenote, it's a seven-year-old low-end Nokia phone, so you really don't have to be some kind of magic modern media scientist to understand it. A LOLcat with a fake PhD in “me iz pressin teh buttns” could do it.
I told her to regulate her alcohol intake down to a more moderate level. No, that's not what I said. I made use of the common tongue, so she would be able to understand, while knowing that it doesn't change a thing about her having a hard time comprehending why I say the things I say, though. I just said, Easy on the booze next time.. Her response was a resentful, Pff, just because I got drunk once?, which I countered with with a simple, … and yet you can't remember half of it.
Some things never change, especially not that woman. I have to get the fuck outta here. Every other week I experience the darkest hours of my youth all over again. But not for very much longer. Soon enough I'll be sitting in Claudia's living room again and we'll talk about remarkable/outstanding voices of metal vocalists and other singers, or something like that. I keep telling myself that. It works. It's one of the most comforting thoughts I can think of, and it keeps me from falling over the edge into the everything-sucks-and-it's-never-gonna-end hole again.
Please don't take this away from me.
Shit, I'm crying again.
*BOOM* MEGA SUBTLE SUBJECT CHANGE OF ENDLESS AWESOME!!!
… nah, can't think of anything right now, but somehow it helped.
_____ 
Tuesday, November 19th , 2013, 2.31pm
The woman walked in and started talking about something our neighbor is upset about. I don't even know the guy by his name, and I have no intention of changing that. I couldn't have been less interested.
Through my years of experience with the talkative nature of hers, I can tell if there's going to be any kind of useful information just by the way how she starts a sentense. The statistics show that in 99.1% it's either generic waste, distorted by the rather special type of perception she calls her own, or simply a straight up lie.
I didn't take off my headphones this time around. Hell, I even kept staring at the screen the whole time. I did nothing that would've implied that I want to partake in this “conversation” in any form whatsoever. The woman just can't take a hint.
Luckily, “*mumble*mumble* neighbor *mumble* upset *mumble*mumble* dog shit … , was all that slipped through the sounds of Samael for over a minute. Thankfully, the story wasn't an all-too long one.
Actually it never is. After a quick summary of what happened she just keeps repeating the parts that had something to with and/or upset her. With every turn she goes more and more into detail about how she tells people off. Thing is, she practically never does, at least not in the way how she tells it in her stories. She likes to make it sound rough and tough, and sometimes even more witty than she actually is.
Also, when she tells something it's ALWAYS blown way out of proportion. Others get treated like they pushed the red button to blow up the world, regardless of what they did. Things she did herself, on the other hand, are considered barely worth mentioning, doesn't matter how wrong they might have been.
How do I know that and why do it hate it so much?
For one, I've often been nearby when such little things happened. When she called my former landlords about my stuff that I left in the apartment in Tulln, for example. All you could hear from her was, Uhuh … hmm … uhuh … erm … , and so on. And of course you feel kind of obligated to compare it to the tale of “how the glorious mother victoriously hang up the phone after she told the bitch how stupid she is” that she tells everyone afterwards. 
Secondly, I do it myself often enough.
Has to be some genetical shit, and that's why I hate it the most. I don't want to be like that, but it's in me. So, occasionally I have a hard time preventing myself from telling shit. I managed to keep me from pretending that I said something that I actually didn't, or adding details which simply aren't true.
Still, it's not like it would flow right outta me. Sometimes I still catch myself almost blabbering out a twisted version of what happened. That's when I have to re-think my conversational strategy for a second. But I don't wanna have to do that. I don't wanna have to be another person on purpose.
Why can't I just be, and accept and be happy with what I am?
Because I know where I come from and hate it when I look at what I might become if I just let myself go. So there's no way around keeping to improve myself knowing that maybe I won't ever be finished. If only this whole trial-and-error crap wouldn't be so damn exhausting. But otherwise you wouldn't be able do appreciate the things you achieve with it.
I just hope that there comes a time when I can look back and think that I did good. A time where I can be thankful and say that everything that happened had to happen exactly the way it did, because it lead me to this – whatever “this” will be.
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Thursday, November 28th, 2013, 8.07am
Been trying to sleep for six hours now. Couldn't have failed more. I don't know what's wrong. Still, tired as hell. Grumpy. Unstable. And as if that wouldn't have been enough already, the old women started to pointlessly tap around on her mobile phone again about half an hour ago. Felt like two hours, though. I can hear the button sounds through my door. That reminds me on my line with the Chinese water torture from a few months back. I can feel my consciousness dripping out of my head, *beep* by *beep*. You can watch yourself as you go mentally numb, one *beep* at a time. My mind is a Pitbull and the beep is the stick that keeps beating the dog until all it wants is to kill everything that remotely looks like a stick. Only difference is that the owner of the beep doesn't know what she's doing. Best evidence for it, like always, are the occasional unintentionally played random audio files. That phone is getting the best of her. Would've some potential to be funny, if it wasn't so damn annoying. It's like she's twisting the gas handle on a scooter and then can't find the “OFF-switch”, so she has to keep driving until the fuel runs out. But it's not like showing and/or telling her how things work would help. Any conceptional abilities of hers dropped out.
Must have happened around five years ago, give or take two years. During my youth there was just one videogame store in St. Pölten, called Games Only. It was THE place to go to for freaks like me. Pretty much every saturday, a bunch of nerds met up and spent practically the whole day there. Typical herd behaviour. (Ouh, a nerd herd. Don't let their numbers get too strong, and don't show'em something they like. You don't wanna mess with a stampede, no matter of which race or species.) The old woman calls every single videogame store “Games Only” since that time. Five years ago, I started working at GameStop. Care to guess what she still calls it? Also, it took me about three years to make her stop calling the Xbox a “PlayStation”. When I switched from Super Nintendo to PlayStation fourteen years ago, she had no problem with sgetting used to the new word. All in all, I think we have enough conclusive proof that new information does not compute anymore. It simply can't be processed. Her CPU got to slow, and her low-capacity storage device is now definitely full.
Gotta find a job.
Gotta move out.
Fast.
PS: If I ever happen to get “that old”, please have the decency to shoot me.
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Should take a bus to the Wifi. Should make some phone calls. Tired. Can't concentrate.
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9.31am
After the phone came the vacuum cleaner which is now followed by Radio Niederösterreich's finest crap compilation combined with the all-too familiar signature move of the old woman, majorly off-tune whistling. Can't catch an eye full of sleep. But if I stay up a little longer, maybe I can sleep through half of the night and use tomorrow morning to get some things done. Don't want to spend another whole weekend just with waiting for monday to come.
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Have to find an alternative name for the old woman. Can't keep calling her just “old woman” the whole time. Too tired. Can't think of something equally condescending right now.
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Wednesday, December 4th, 2013, 12.35am
Just had to think back to a story which is a pretty good example of why I hate the m.o.m. and the parts of her that I in recognize in my own personality, and why I don't want to be like her.
Around seven years ago one of the m.o.m.'s dogs got sick. For two or three weeks it didn't eat. What it ate barely made its way out again. And the little it pooped was bloody and had a disgusting stench to it. Its bowel was infected. The dog was incapable of digesting anything. Can't imagine the pain it was going through. The vet couldn't find anything until the postmortem examination, after the dog died a slow and agonizing death. What he pulled out of its stomach was one of my girlfriend's tampons that had blocked the animal's digestive tract. It had the habit of eating practically anything that fit in his mouth which eventually lead to its inevitable demise. So, to me his death made him a strong contender for that years Darwin award. Siggi on the other hand blamed herself for it, because the m.o.m. couldn't keep her mouth shut and casually mentioned to her what had happened. She didn't want her to feel guilty, but that's exactly the point. She doesn't realize what she says, how it comes across, and what damage she does with it. That's one of the many, many details that I hate about that woman, and as a result also about myself.
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Friday, December 6th, 2013, 12.29pm
The m.o.m. started to sort my stuff. Yesterday we left most of it in the living room. Looks like one big pile of junk. I'd have started to work on it latest by tomorrow. I don't like it at all when she touches any of it. When she asked me what to do with all the videogame magazines, manga and artbooks, I told her to put it into a plastic bag and store it in one of my closets. Otherwise they'll start to rot away in the very instant you put them anywhere near those moist wet walls. Now she comes asking every thirty minutes if she should put all the videogames, CDs and DVDs into bags, too. I think just now was the third time within a couple of hours that I had to point out to her that the moisture doesn't really matter to PLASTIC, it's the PAPER that I'm worried about. It's like talking to someone who then just vanishes. Only minutes later, an earlier version of that person from another parallel dimension steps in and asks almost the same question. Glitch in the matrix? FUCK YOU, machines! FIX IT, damnit! I can feel another headache incoming.
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9.21pm
Fork-lift lessons are a joke, as expected.
And I come “home” to a closet full of DVDs, CDs and games, all mixed up, stacked onto each other with their covers facing up and the sides facing to the wall, so it's no longer an option to determine which albums of which bands, or which movies or games you're currently looking at. All you see is a bunch of pillars made of blue, red, white, green or black plastic cases, and occasionally a small cupboard box inbetween that's been crushed under the pressure. I guess I have to be thankful for it that all that stuff doesn't mean so much to me anymore. Still, the collector and nerd in me is screaming in agony when he looks at such … blasphemy. Ten lashes for every piece that's unidentifiable by simply opening the closet.
Nah, just fuck it.
All I cared coming home to was Pinky Pie, to take away the bad things in my mind, and getting a good eight hours of sleep.
Ah, it's you again, headache. Haven't even been noticing you for hours.
_____
Donnerstag, 09. Januar 2014, 2:13 Uhr
Die alte Frau ist natürlich die erste, die die Hand auffhält, wenn ich wieder etwas Geld zur Verfügung habe.
Plötzlich will sie € 300.- Miete von mir. Letztes Monat hatte sie auch schon „gefragt“ (der Ton war jedoch unzweifelhaft „ich brauche/du musst“). Würde ich's ihr einfach anstandslos geben, wäre das dann der Standard für alle weiteren Monate. Momentan bekomme ich vom AMS € 800.- (€ 200.- zur freien Verfügung, € 200.- als Rückzahlung für meine Schulden bei der Bank). Theoretisch würden mir dann € 100,- zur Rückzahlung diverser anderer Dinge bleiben, womit ich nicht weit komme oder ewig und noch drei Tage brauche. Zusätzlich hieße das für mich: Kohle auf der Seite = null (0). Wieder eine eigene Wohnung zu haben würde sich dadurch ebenfalls noch weiter hinauszögern. Keine Chance, alte Frau.
Je mehr ich mich weigerte, umso mehr brach die Forderung ein. Sie meinte, dass es ja nicht permanent, sondern nur dieses Monat betrifft; sie könnte es mir am Ende des Monats zurückzahlen. Schön und gut. Aber warum braucht sie es dann unbedingt JETZT, wenn es doch ohnehin kein Problem zu sein scheint, bis ans Monatsende an das Geld zu kommen? Und wie sieht's dann nächsten Monat aus? Keine Antwort.
Wer weiß schon, was da wieder für ein Scheiß dahinter steckt. Ich will's gar nicht wissen. Mich interessiert es nicht. Ihr Problem, nicht meins. Alles was ich weiß ist, dass mein Vater seine letzten Jahre damit verbracht hat, ÖS 80,000.- (ca. € 6,500.-) Schulden von der Frau abzuarbeiten, bevor er ein halbes Jahr später in einer Urne unter die Erde gebracht wurde. Habe absolut keinen Bock, das selbe oder ein auch nur annähernd ähnliches Schicksal zu erleiden, so dumm das jetzt vielleicht auch klingen mag. Habe ihr gesagt, dass ich im Monat nicht mehr als 200 abheben kann und der Rest aus gutem Grund gesperrt ist.
Bei Personen, die ich mag, stünde meine Bereitschaft, meinen finanziellen Beitrag zu leisten, außer Frage. Ich habe prinzipiell kein Problem damit und würde das selbe auch von anderen Leuten erwarten. Die Frau, allerdings, muss mir erst zurückzahlen, was in mir zerstört wurde, wozu sie maßgeblich beigetragen hat. Vorher bekommt sie von mir nichts. Damit wird sie wohl niemals fertig werden. Alleine schon deswegen nicht, weil es mich „als Gast des Hauses“ genug kostet, meine Verachtung zu unterdrücken und zu verbergen. Doch das erwarte ich auch nicht. Sie soll einfach nur zahlen. So lange wie möglich, so viel wie möglich.
Monatelange Nerverei von wegen „meld' dich beim Arbeitsamt“, „schenk' doch das Geld nicht so einfach dem Staat“, „fang langsam an deine Schulden zu zahlen, denn sonst wird’s nur noch mehr“, blabla usw., „nur zu deinem Besten“, bla. Jaja, am Arsch. Wusst ich's doch, dass es ihr nur um meine „Schulden“ bei ihr geht. Ihr geht’s nur darum, dass sie „ihre“ Kohle bekommt. Alles andere ist ihr relativ egal. So fasse ich es zumindest auf. Selbst wenn es nicht so sein sollte, ginge mir das ziemlich am Arsch vorbei.
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