One of the things that I don't understand in life is why my grandma is still alive. After a multitude of serious health problems, surgeries, and recoveries, the gal is still up and kicking; she’s 67 and alive, although she has become incredibly senile in a short span of time. Mormor (grandma in Norwegian) lives with us, and she has for four years. I don't know her real name; ever since I was born she was Mormor to me and everybody around me. The woman has lived an explosive, irresponsible scandal of a life, and is now suffering the consequences thereof. I understand the bond between us, but I don't love her. She's a barmy old bat that demands respect bordering on reverence which she simply hasn't earned. I don't know why being decrepit is reason enough for respect; perhaps it's some sort of consolation for the deteriorating of one's body. Well, I think she should die soon. I swear, one more sickness or problem will do the trick, I'm sure it will come anytime soon. Then, you see, we could have our downstairs den back that has become her bedroom, her bathroom, and the statuettes and luxurious knickknacks she blew her money on when she was wealthy back in the 60s. I don't think the bat is attached to life anymore, considering that hers consists mainly of sitting on the couch with her shifty eyes, staring at the dog. Boris the dog is just as old, so he lays on the floor with his shifty eyes, staring at the bat. It's a vicious cycle, I know. At least boris is cute in his feeble, venerable way; he'll see you when you come home and wait 3 seconds before lugging his tail up in the air and letting it plop back on the floor with a loud smack. He doesn't run, he barely walks, and his two goals in life are the following:
1. acquire food of any type, shape, and edibility.
2. Imitate a rug.
He's a pro at both activities listed above, so he must be very satisfied with himself, even though the bat swears up and down that he's depressed and needs Valium. I've decided I like boris as long as he's not in my way, and I've decided I dislike the bat as long as she's within view. This might seem heartless, I know, but the Bat would understand. She hates my aunt Susan for not going to prom with her best friend's nephew; she hasn't sent Susan or her offspring a Christmas gift since the ordeal in 1982 and reminds the family about it incessantly.

I come from a very interesting family. The strange thing is that my family in Norway, my dear relatives that pretty much don’t believe in clothing during summer months, are the normal ones. My insanity is completely and wholly justified.