"Oh, how am I? Well, you know, still biting my cuticles, still compulsively picking my skin, still hating myself, my existence and all the dumb little problems that I create for myself. Also, I feel really naseous lately and am phoning you from the toilet . . . oh, and you know those cats I adopted- I know how much you hate cats, Grandma, but I feel I should explain that incessantly loud purring in the background- well one of them opens my bathroom door and likes to sit on my lap while I'm naked from the waist down, isn't that creepy Grandma? Yes, he's looking me right in the eye while I'm pooping, isn't that just great?"
. . . so I'm thinking of just sending her a card instead . . . maybe she'll just write back telling anything she might want to tell me, so I won't have to actually engage in conversation about myself at any point.
Because it's not that I don't want to hear from her, I just don't want anyone to have to listen to me. And conversations always have that nasty little way of turning around from one person to the next.