I’ve been trying to ease her into certain things, but she doesn’t remember me running the 2000 election, nor does she seem to think I had any experience for my first job.

We needn’t talk about fisting here, but it’s crucial to the past 17 years of my life, to my detriment.

We were at dinner tonight … nice place, great Caesar dressing, and it became apparent that she, at 79, doesn’t at all remember why the fuck I didn’t just get into journalism but accepted it as my life.

She seems to now think it’s random that I worked at the paper, sted “Holy fuck, I didn’t know what love was.”

I’ve got a couple of things prepared for our drive tomorrow, but she seems oblivious to what made me who I am.