Do you ever wonder if you are genetically predetermined to make the same "types" of mistakes your predecessors did?

I wish my paternal grandmother was still alive. I have this odd sense that I'm treading in her footsteps, and yet I don't even know where the steps go, and nor did she, I guess. Even I admit that I'm more like my maternal grandmother than anything, except I'm still haunted by this idea that Carol and I have some things in common that the others don't. Is it even remotely normal to be mad at someone who died in 1985? Nothing certainly was ever the same. Ah, the burdens of the living.

It bothers me so much because her death was (to me) so unexpected. Whereas with Granddaddy, I WANTED him to go. He wasn't any where close to the man I knew, and it killed me to see him in such a state. Death was a blessing. And I had closure, a hand in his release, if you will. You have no such luxury at twelve.

Lest ye all go running for your drugs, I'm not depressed or psychotic. Isn't a girl entitled to a little melancholy now and then?