XXI

If I had to list three things that bothered me beyond words, I wouldn’t be hard pressed to come up with them; first, it would go to the entitlment Mom feels regarding me and my life; second would be the youth pastor Dad brought on nearly five years back who, albeit looked twenty, was actually thirty-five and the most desperate man for his own youth I’ve ever met; third, is myself. Truthfully, the saying that we’re our own worst critic, which is always used to reassure people that their creations, actions, or whathave is not as bad as they think. We need to be our own worst critic because no one we value enough will tell us if we’ve made a mistake. I don’t care too much anymore when Mom tells me I’ve messed up because she’s done things far worse in her life than I have mine.