Had another row with mum yesterday, about a frequently discussed subject: she doesn't like the way I laugh. I must say that in the moment I had a terrible urge to bitch-slap her across the face. How I laugh is my goddamn business. If I can't choose that, then what the hell can I choose?
Supposedly this laugh of mine is vulgar, 'Boers' she said, and trying to stay on the funny side of things I pointed out that that wasn't very respectful of the old South-African colonist's descent. She literally exploded. It was big, scary and loud, and if I'd let her, there would have been blood. It might have been that of the meat she was occupied  with, but it would have splattered like it did in the shower scene of that 'Psycho' movie of Hitchcock.

But I didn't let her. I can do my fair bit of venom talking, especially around family, where I'm not afraid to shout it out loud. I started with a decent argument, that it was my bloody laugh, my bloody very obvious way of showing I find something funny, and that since she was obviously the only one bothered I wouldn't change it for her, thank you very much.
She then deflected, saying she wished I'd be a little more feminine. I added that I'd wish she be a little less like a teenager running high on hormones (she's worse than me most of the time) and since I've been into the Stones lately, I quipped a quintessential (god I love that word, I'm sure I use it wrongly but I love it) "You Can't Always Get What You Want" at her, thus closing the argument and winning. I was still seething though. She wants me to be more open and social, but if she thinks I better shut up because my laugh is vulgar, then what the hell does she want? Well I said it already: whatever it is, she's not getting it.