It is what it is

This is the floral arrangement I'm having sent to the funeral home for my uncle's service on Friday. I won't be there. Because our family patriarch will be. And he molested me.

He and my uncle were not close. In fact, they clashed often over the years. Recently, when told of my uncle's desperate straits, he conveyed to my mother that he really didn't care much.

Yet he will, no doubt, be in the front row at the service because that's the kind of 14k pig and hypocrite he is. I'll be at my desk, at work. And my family will be fine with this because maintaining the illusion of a "normal" American family is more important than doing what's fair ... or what my uncle would have wanted.

Oh well, it is what it is.

I could go to the service, of course. And risk a scene with the old pervert. At which point I might start screaming. I don't need that kind of stress and crap while I mourn someone who actually mattered in my life. So I'm going to protect myself by staying away.

If there's anything that matters to me more than my family's bullshit image of itself, it's my sanity.