The Queen of the North
If I ever get the chance, I will name my home A Rainha do Norte.
It will be named in honor of all I have suffered through, by my own hand and by others.
It is overcast today and gusty and cool. The leaves are starting to turn, and winter is coming. I love these sorts of days, where I do not feel guilty for not living a life of sunshine and joy.
It hasn’t been a good week, my side gig was terminated, and I don’t know if it was personal or purely professional.
If personal, it is just evidence again that I can’t fit, that my mouth gets away from me, that I am too much me.
My father was unable to survive working for others, hence why he did best as a janitor.
When younger, I was appalled by his lack of tact, his inability to conform to support a family, and his disinterest in supporting a family.
As I got older and found corporate life difficult for me to navigate, I threw him a bone once and said that I now understood how it was difficult for him to survive an office life.
The comment was delivered honestly and humbly and was meant as an olive branch, but he just smirked at me cruelly and nodded his head.
