Questions make me angry lately. Really, really angry. All of a sudden, I don’t know any of the fucking answers—not even to simple questions that I obviously know the answers to. Suddenly, every question is hard. It’s as though my mother’s death took all of the sense out of everything.
What’s your plan?
What are you doing next?
When are you going home?
Will you spend Christmas with us?
When are you coming back to Seattle?
When can we see you?
What are you working on now?
What will you do when the contract is up?
Are you worried about the contract ending?
Where are you living?
Will you move soon?
Are you moving back to California?
Who are your favorite authors?
What video games are you playing now?
Can you extend your contract?
Why do you have two cars?
Where’d you get that jacket?
Where’d you get that ring?
Where’d you get that bracelet?
Oh, was that purse your mom’s too?
Have you called this place yet?
What about that place?
Oh, well when do you think the death certificates will arrive?
Are you taking this with you?
Why don’t you want to take this with you?
How long did it take you to get here?
Are you working on a blanket?
Are you working on a game?
Are you working on a book?
What do you do with your free time?
What is Pokemon Go?
Either the questions don’t make any sense to me or the answers are so incredibly boring that I can’t imagine why another person would ever bother asking it, and I get unbelievably irritated that I have to waste oxygen providing an answer. It doesn’t matter who is asking the question or what the topic is. They just make me mind-numbingly angry.