Well, looks like me and Pablo Picasso share a birthday.

Fuck Picasso. Right in his ear, wherever the fuck that is.

My mom's in the hospital, stress/panic attack. Happened yesterday Looking at her laying in the hospital bed in psych ward wearing the indecent gown they give you, she is so small. Tiny like some bird too small to fly.

Of course I blame myself. She worries too much, a bit about my unemployment and so on. She even started to cry because she hadn't gotten my birthday present yet.

It's easy to place blame at this point. She doesn't sleep because her husband snores too much. Stress from work and bills and her husband and myself and her new grandaughter.

Her only real possession, besides the pens and clothes is a smallter than wallet-size picture of my little girl. She holds onto it like it's her last connection.

I'm sure she'll be all right. That's a lie. I'm not sure and never will be. I hope.