by Lionel Shriver

What’s it like to raise a child who winds up wounding and murdering some of his high school classmates, including a teacher? Is it because of your lack of maternal skills, maybe even a dislike of your own child? Is it because he was born with an inherent malice so strong it drove him to commit this act? He isn’t an outcast, teased by his classmates and the last chosen in a game of kickball. He’s incredibly intelligent, almost frighteningly so, and comes from an upper-middle-class suburban family. So how did this happen — not why but how?

These are the questions Eva Khatchadourian ponders in a series of letters to her estranged husband Franklin: was she a bad mother, or was Kevin born evil? Eva recounts other, milder but no less disturbing events surrounding Kevin throughout his life, each gaining in maliciousness and lead to his final act of murder. Her story begins even before Kevin’s birth, when she and Franklin discuss whether or not to have children, and the circumstances of his conception seem to arise from a whim.

Though We Need To Talk About Kevin is a page-turner, the narrative doesn’t read like correspondence; they’re so detailed and include information that Franklin would presumably already know, framed in reminiscence. The epistolary form isn’t truly achieved because the story reads like a traditional novel. But it works. I enjoyed this book very much.

featuring Basil (l) and Hopper (r)

We finally bought a new comforter last December. It’s spread over our futon because it had just come out of the dryer but wasn’t completely dry yet. So of course, our fur kids got to use it before we did.

I tried fixing Basil’s “laser eyes” with Paint Shop Pro, but couldn’t quite get it right.

Remember a while back I participated in The Great Interview Experiment 2009? You sign up, then you’re assigned a blogger to interview and a different blogger is assigned to interview you. I interviewed Wendy, who writes Midwest Green. You can read the interview here if you missed it the first time.

Supa Dupa Fresh, who writes the blog Fresh Widow, interviewed me! You can read her interview here: The Great Interview Experiment: Barb of Bloggo Chicago. I hope you all enjoy it! It really made my day.

I’ve been avoiding the Internet — Twitter, Facebook except for my Mafia Wars account, my blog, your blogs, even e-mail when possible. It’s a sign of depression for me. But this time I’m determined to continue blogging, no matter how difficult it is. I’m at least getting out of bed, though I haven’t been showering every day, if at all. My hygiene is at a minimum. I mean, by the time I’m done using the bathroom, I’m pooped. Haha. Seriously, I am drained.

This last bout of depression was beginning to improve, especially because I was also finished PMSing. Then an incident occurred on Saturday morning. We were supposed to take Basil to the vet for a tech appointment (not a full exam) at 10:30. I hadn’t gone to the bathroom yet, and by the time I did, we were running late. I can’t remember exactly what happened, but Brian and I began yelling each other, I began feeling extremely anxious — while on the frickin’ toilet — and scratched up my left arm. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until it was all red and the top blood vessels had burst like they do when I scratch a hive or mosquito bite more than I ought to. It wasn’t my intention to harm myself; it was very much like wringing my hands or working a piece of fabric (like from my shirt hem) between my thumb and forefinger when I’m anxious.

I had already had bad IBS experiences the few days before, and my self-disgust was — is — at an all-time high. I realize this isn’t my fault, that it’s the IBS, but I’m still not convinced because going to the bathroom is something we learn to control at an early age. This incident on Saturday plunged me into yet another depression. I had already seen our family doctor earlier that week, who prescribed something that’s like a preemptive Immodium. I can’t remember what it’s called. I took it for the first time that morning, 15 minutes before eating, as directed. The only real difference was that when I had to go, it wasn’t as incredibly urgent as usual — just that I didn’t have to go early enough to give me time to get ready to leave the apartment.

Anyway, I haven’t even wanted to talk to my therapist on the phone, but I have. I have a follow-up appointment with the doctor in about a month. In the meantime I’m supposed to get an MRI for my ankle and some sort of nerve test that will hopefully explain why my left hand suddenly goes numb sometimes. Not numb like I can’t feel it; more like pins and needles, even though I haven’t been sitting on it.

I’m trying not to stress eat, and it’s been tough. But seriously, the last thing I need is to gain even more weight.