The following is a prologue for a project for Writing Research and Technology, called a Twitterive. A Twitterive is multimodal narrative in which multiple genres are used to show readers a person's relationship, or lack thereof, to a specific place of that person's choosing. This is the introduction to the Twitterive and is meant to illustrate my inspiration, my place, my theme and my repetend. I am still working on my Twitterive and my progress can be viewed under the assignments tab on this website.
    I discovered my place while attempting to avoid another one. My twitter posts were focused on the issues I was having before during and after quitting my job at the beginning of this semester. Since I still find that topic very depressing, I wanted to steer clear of it. Quitting was such a hard decision and I am still struggling with the change and so it continued coming up in my tweets. I realized it would be nearly impossible to not address this topic in my Twitterive in any way so I began taking a closer look at the issues that were coming up after my resignation. One that has always been there, but seems to bother me more at this time of uncertainty, is the trouble that I have completing a conversation with my mother.
    Since I can never tell when she has stopped listening, I can talk to her for long periods of time before I realize she hasn't been paying attention. I have chosen to make my place the feeling of building frustration and despair that results from these incomplete conversations. I have begun to feel like an outsider in my home, since it feels like I am the only one who encounters this problem with my her. Even though I know my mom very well, these conversations make her seem like a stranger to me, especially since I've tried to address the problem several times. My repetend is the feeling of talking to myself. All of my attempts to address the issue fall on deaf ears. It is also important to not that although this is something that bothers me, it does not define my relationship with my mom. It is just one place in our relationship.
The follow tweets inspired this Twitterive and vice versa:

• The funny thing is, when I pretend to not listen to her she doesn't seem to notice. How do I get through???!!! #twitterive

• She thinks I'm dramatic. Maybe I am, but how would she know when she only ever hears half of any story? #twitterive #mommyissues

• Look at me!!! #twitterive

• I can't live with her, but I definitely can't live without her. #twitterive #mommyissues

• Ever have one of those dreams when you're talking but no sound comes out? When I'm awake I'm talking, but no one can hear me #twitterive

The following microfictions were created for Writing Research and Technology.
"The Conversation" is based on the tweet below. The tweet is the first line of the story.
The line "I will no longer be made to feel ashamed of existing." in "Red" was taken from page 6 of How to Tame a Wild Tongue, a chapter of "Borderland/La Frontera" by Gloria Anzaldua.

The Conversation
                I can’t live with her, but I definitely can’t live without her. I walk in the door and the burdens of the week begin to lift. It’s been a long one. “Hi” she says, “I haven’t seen you all week. How was it?” These three magic words are the only excuse I need to tear down the defensive wall that’s been under construction all week. I tell her the whole lot; the lows, the highs and everything in between. I tell her about the one part of my week from hell that I’m proud of. I worked up the nerve to tell my boss that I deserve a raise. She’d been telling me I should for as long as I can remember. I was confident, succinct and resolute, just like my boss when she told me no. I tell her how I’m not sure if I should continue if I’m not going to get what I deserve. Saying that out loud makes me cry because thought of leaving a job I love and having to do something else is overwhelming. Despite the tangled yarn of emotions I’m feeling I can’t help but to be at peace. I’m home now and she’s going to tell me how to make it all come together. I am finally silent and look to her with tear filled eyes of expectation. “You know, you really should ask your boss for a raise” she says. “If she says no, you should seriously consider doing something else.”
Red
Louis avoided the stare of a scowling older woman, walked to the curb and unlocked his car on auto-pilot. He didn’t see the red until he got in and noticed that sunlight wasn’t penetrating the windows as it should be. It was then that he looked up and saw what looked like blood smeared on all of the windows. They had concentrated on his windshield so he couldn’t drive it. A lump was working its way up his throat, but he defiantly forced it back with a hard swallow. He turned on his windshield wipers. They smeared the top layer of the crimson paint, but the bottom layer had dried. He had grown accustomed to this type of harassment. His neighbors had taunted him mercilessly since he moved into the apartment building. They saw the term “registered sex offender” and only thought of one thing. He hadn’t touched a child since he was a child, but they had no interest in hearing that. She had been his girlfriend and only two years younger than him. None of that mattered to anyone, the judge, the girl’s parents, potential employers.  I will no longer be made to feel ashamed of existing. He went back into his apartment, turned all four burners to gas, doused his curtains, mattress and couch in lighter fluid and set them all ablaze. He walked back down the steps, waved to a smirking older woman and walked to work.