At least she acknowledged the angelhair as my savior

From another room

Mom: A.! A.! I have something important to tell you.
A.: Yes?
Mom: Every real artist, every real writer--
A.: Dammit, mom, you've told me this a gazillion times since I got here.
Mom: I haven't told you today.
Dad: I heard you tell her today.
Mom: Clearly it hasn't sunk in, so I need to say it again: every amazing writer can't help but write. It comes organically. It comes from God, from the higher being-
A.: From the Flying Spaghetti Monster.
Mom: Fine. Whatever you choose as your higher being. My point is, they had to write. And they knew what they were going to write. Pushkin cried, but he had to kill Gherman.
A.: I heard you the first ten times, mom.
Mom: I'm going to keep telling you until you understand.