I Think People Overlook Just How Complex Bloberta Is. Yes, She Is Not A Good Mother, She's Neglectful

I think people overlook just how complex Bloberta is. Yes, she is not a good mother, she's neglectful and cold and uncaring most of the times, but that's the point. Neither Bloberta or Clay should've had a family, due to their own self hatred. The worst people in all time got married and make it everyone's problem.

Bloberta married out of desperation. Imagine being a middle child that's not even a ghost in her own house. You don't haunt anything because that means that you would be something, but as far as your mother is concerned, there's just you, and piece of furniture in everyone's way, the body in the corner of every family photo.

And your father plays with his fingers and looks down, apologetic, with his mouth shut. He drinks out of a flask, and you're his everything. The liquor eases his throat and his voice is syrupy. You are someone, and your reflection is dim, but your father looks at you, and you're seen, but not known, and thus, you're not loved.

And all your friends have pretty rings on their fingers that they show when they talk, moving their hands. They giggle and gush and raise their voices to octaves, cradling with the palm of their hands their faces with blush on them. You wonder what it feels like. Does love bubble? Is it fluttering in their soul and blood? Does it make you twitch and yearn? How's it like to have a man's attention, with their smirks and eyes, promises made in front of an altar. Someone to have in the palm of your hand. You want to be someone's wife, a shadowy silhouette that comes home, and calls you dear. In your stomach, there's an emptiness, but what else can you do?

There is no world beyond the town. Or at least, no world for you. You're not the smartest, not the prettiest. God made a plan, so he made you for something, right? There's something you can do, something nobody else can do, but you.

And at a wedding, where the bride, in a pompous white dress, kiss her husband and throws her rosey flowers, you don't catch it. You don't know if that means anything, really. You're getting old, and your smile is showing, and you're afraid of never leaving your fucking house. Because that place was never a home. You were never supposed live there.

And the man you meet, he's, well, nice to look at, you guess? I mean, you could live with it. He has a blue suit and a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. You pat down your dress, and clutch your gloved hands when you ask him to go to the reception. Please don't leave. Don't leave because nobody wants me. Nobody else will marry. Maybe that's why, you've been here all your life. Or whatever the fuck it is.

And you sit and talk and he's all awkward and gangly. And that's fine. That's fine, you can work on that. He speaks about reading the bible and your fingers are tapping the table. But he's fine, and you can't go back to that house ringless. You won't go back to that house a failure, nothing. A talentless, out of place, nothing.

You get order drinks. When your father drinks, he's nice, and you feel the warmth of what could be his love. It isn't quite love, but it's as close as you can get. And he drinks, and drinks and drinks. And you want him to stop. Because he turns into this idiot, an imbecilic sack of shit. And you feel your cheeks burn, your fists clench. He's not what you thought he was. He needs to learn. You'll take care of him, he's broken, and you fix things. You could be his wife and fix him, and on the way, it'll fix you too. God made you a little twisted, a little wrong. But it's fixable. It always is.

And you hit him, straight in the face. It knocks him out and leaves an ugly reddish mark. You out his head on your lap and the salon is empty. You look down at him as he opens his eyes and you say: " I'll take care of you." And he nods, and you stay there.

But what are you now? You look up at the ceiling and there's a muffled sound of children and his snoring. The ceiling is cracking and needs to be repainted. There's not a spot of mold in this house because it's the only thing you can fix and shape. Cleanliness is the way to god, the way to holy fixing. Your house and it's white, clean floors sweep your feelings away. Like dust beneath a rug, there are muffled. But they always come back up, creeping up your throat.

You hate him. Repulsive, needy, whining man that cries and moans and will drink himself to death. You hope he does. You hope you both go to sleep and never wake up. Your bodies a testament, of failures in your life. Maybe your mother was right. Maybe God didn't make you to be happy. There's no plan for you, and you make do for a life that's crooked and empty. There's not a home within this walls. And you're a shadow. Just another piece of the furniture on display.

Nobody wants your body, and it has never been touched with love. Maybe you are disgusting, and you two were meant to be. Why not marry him? Why not staying? Where else could you go? When there is nothing for you. Just this town, just this church, just this God.

Just this husband, and children. And a ring on your finger, never shining under the sun.