Well, isn’t it funny how things work out? _Like really, really funny,_ in that twisted, kind of messed up way that only I can fully appreciate. You know, there’s something oddly satisfying about the way life just falls into place, like one of those puzzles you always hated as a kid but now can’t stop playing with, even when the edges are sharp and the pieces don’t exactly fit. But who needs to color inside the lines anyway? Where’s the fun in that?

I mean, let’s talk about Mother, shall we? Dear old Mom. _Saint Mom,_ always with her sweet, sugary smile and her _oh-so-perfect_ little world. But there’s something people don’t get about perfection—_it’s suffocating_. You ever try to breathe when someone’s stuffing your mouth with cotton candy? Sticky, sweet, and it just won’t let up? That’s what it was like, living under her thumb. A thumb that always pressed just a little too hard, always a little too much _pressure_ on the back of my skull, making my thoughts spin, and spin, and spin—until, well, you know.

Everyone says you only get one mother, right? So, I thought, why not make it count? Go out with a _bang_, as they say. And boy, did I. You should’ve seen her face when I, uh, _let’s say_, rearranged her worldview. _Priceless,_ really. Like a work of art that no one else would get but me. _A little abstract_, a little Pollock, splatters and all—it really brought the room together.

Oh, don’t look at me like that. I mean, she had it coming. Who wouldn’t lose their mind, being smothered in all that _love_? _Love_ that tasted more like vinegar than honey. She always said she did everything out of love—_isn’t it poetic_ that I returned the favor? It’s only fair, after all.

And let’s not forget the clean-up. Oh, that was a hoot! Blood has this way of sticking around, you know? Like a bad ex, it just doesn’t want to leave. But you get creative, you learn to _improvise_. Who knew Mom’s favorite rug could double as such a convenient…canvas? _Artistic expression_, they call it. She’d always told me to find a hobby, something to _focus_ on. So, I did, just maybe not the way she intended.

But here’s the kicker—I don’t feel bad. Not a twinge, not a single ounce of regret. That’s the punchline in this cosmic joke. It’s _liberating_, actually, _freeing_ in a way you could never understand unless you’ve been there, unless you’ve felt the _thrill_ of that final breath, the one that sounds more like _a sigh of relief_ than anything else. Like the world finally makes sense, you know? Like everything’s finally _quiet_.

So, yeah, you could say I’ve lost my mind. But honestly, was it ever really mine to lose? Or was it just another one of her little gifts, something she wrapped up in bows and ribbons of guilt and expectation? And when I cut those strings—well, it was the best thing I ever did. Now, I can breathe, _really breathe_. And laugh, too, because in the end, what’s life without a little humor?

After all, it’s not like I’m the crazy one here. I just saw things for what they really were. Mom always said I had a unique perspective. Guess she was right.