I think the pink and blue flowered wallpaper in Gmom's spare bedroom is about to put me over the edge. This kind of reminds me of a short story I had to read in college about this woman who slowly went crazy, and as she declines she becomes obsessed with the yellow wallpaper in her room, imagining women trapped behind the pattern, creeping around. Sometimes I feel as though all of the flowers are going to jump off of the wall and rush the bed.
It is unbelievably difficult living a life where nothing is yours. The furniture, the curtains, the pink sheets, the stacks of National Geographics, the shows she watches in the evenings. And you know you can't suggest any dramatic changes because that might upset her equilibrium. And then you feel guilty and ungrateful and even more wretched than before.
Eh, it could be worse. The wallpaper could be that shiny metallic paper with the women's turbaned heads that used to be in Grandmother Easterling's guest bathroom.
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