Philip Larkin wrote a poem about how parents f*ck you up. They pass on their faults and add a few more, just for you. I agree with him, and even more so that it is through no fault of their own. How in turn, they were f*cked up by their parents. I'm contemplating his solution, he advises us to "get out while you can, don't have any kids of your own." But there's really no danger in that seeing as I have not found a person to procreate with. Blaming my parents is no longer excusable at my age, I have taken responsibility for my issues but I'm feeling petty because my mother didn't tell me she loved me too, when I called her yesterday. She said thank you instead, thank you! I still haven't made the appointment with the shrink I was referred to, so I am going to rant on the internet. I mean what is a personal blog for anyway? I'll write a book when they are old and blind. Like most of us, I've been blessed with issues by my loving parent