Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

Okay...

I had the weirdest night last night.

Mom made me help her bake these persian cookies, since someone told her to teach me how to cook Iranian food. So, it turned into this ordeal, because the recipe (which I was reading in Farsi, btw) is all in grams. So, we had to convert it from grams to ounces, and then ended up with a batter that was WAY too runny, so we spent an hour trying to thicken it up, and even after sifting a whole other cup of flour in it, we still ended up making raisin crepes. One batch we decided to turn into brownie squares, since the batter was running together anyways.

So.

Anyways, in the midst of it all, between making her a frame and mat for a poster she has to baking what was supposed to be raisin cookies, I got a message on my cell phone. So I listen to it, and my mom hits me from left field with,

"banafsheh's in love!"
so I said,
"Excuse me? What the hell?!"
and she said,
"I havent seen you act like this in a long time"
and I said,
"What?! Act like what?"
and she said,
"Happy."

Then for the next three hours, she teased me with "you-re i-in lo-ove" like a freaking third grader.

WTF?! I AM NOT. I might be in like, but I'm certainly not in love.

Maybe my vagina's fixed, and she was catching on to the glow.

Gosh, has it been that long?

I don't think I'm acting any differently. Maybe I'm finally happy with myself. Why should someone else get all the credit? Why is it automatically assumed that there's someone else if I am happy? Even if there was someone, which...
there's not...
technically...

Why can't I just be happy?

And who said I'm happy, anyways?

Stupid cookies.

b