Dear Mister Gofuqueurself.
Dear The Man Who Has Been Dating My Mom Since I Was Two and Yet I Still Don't Consider a Father Mostly Because You're Too Cheap to Propose To My Mom Properly and Anyway You Missed Your Chance By About Ten Years,
I understand that you are used to living under Your Mother, and that Your Mother is a very harsh woman. Your Sister was lucky enough to find a woman not too unlike Your Mother in the "the house is clean!"-nazi sense, but unfortunately for you, you got my mom.
My mom is a pack rat. My mom does not do housework, unless she's royally pissed off at you. If you have an issue with the way the house is kept, stop bitchin' and moanin' and start practicing a bit of what you preach. I'm sorry the house is messy. You sitting on your fat ass does not rectify this situation. You mowing the yard does not clean the house. You lecturing me does not endear me to the idea. You have had fifteen years to learn this. Get over yourself.
On the note of lecturing me in ways you seem to think will endear me to your ideams, telling me that I will be doing "chores" in a patronizing tone of voice does not make me warm to the idea. Do you see those forty-odd animals outside? The ones that I take care of every night I am at home? The ones that I know all the names of, and many of which I helped rear since birth? Do not some how insinuate that I do not do work around this house.
This house, which--despite your apparent delusions--is NOT half yours. My mother pays these bills. My mother pays this morgage. My mother always has. And if she were to suddenly drop dead, you are not entitled to a single lick of it. So shut the fuck up on that front. If you would like, you may take the dog.
Also, I understand that you would like to be part of my life. This does not mean that you get to take it upon yourself to give me "talks" or try to get me to learn "life lessons". You will notice that I have spent the last SEVENTEEN YEARS not confiding in you. You will notice that you know of my homosexuality through my mother only. You will notice that YOU wanted to send me to counseling. You will notice that I have NOT explained to anyone except my very closest friends and my mother that I want a sex change. You are not someone I feel safe confiding in; you are not a confidant. You are not a shoulder to cry on. You are not a sounding-board. You are not my friend.
Your assumptions on my love life are likewise unnecessary. And please, PLEASE stop writing me five page letters from Salem on how, when you were my age, you weren't interested in dating or sex. Amazingly enough, you are not me. And, amazingly enough, I really don't want to hear about that. However, sarcasm is lost in a letter you will never read.
Finally, you often make my mother cry. These are not tear of longing, pining for you to come home. These are tears of frustration and anger and resentment, more often than not. These are tears that come from you yelling at her or me; from calling her a liar; from badmouthing me while I'm in the room. And though you might deny these things, say you never said anything wrong, you are not a saint. We all fuck up. You just refuse to admit to it most of the time.
So, with all undue respect, please go fuck yourself.
Sincerely,
Cael Robyn Denham but I hope you are well gone before you ever know me by that name.
PS. Asking me to do something is not actually asking me to do something. Just tell me to do it, and I will.
I feel slightly better now.