Here's a sample from the book. Patella's mother is a "concerned parent," but like all such creatures she must be patient and suffer in near-silence:

      My mother and I sat at the kitchen table and ate our tuna-rice mix. Fredly sat on the floor cultivating a hungry look. I said to her, “I know the feeling, Fredly.” My mother snorted.
      While forking in tuna-rice mix, I visualized about how a vet might give a tuna a blood transfusion. I gave up that train of thought pretty soon as my imagination is better at poetry. My mother continued to correct papers beside her dinner plate, occasionally wiping fork droppings from the papers. When she spills, she does not cuss the way most Balona women would do. Instead, she says, “spit!” Says it frequently with a lot of ess sound that usually makes me jump if I’m near.
      We had yogurt for dessert after the tuna mix, and then cups of hot chocolate. I took a graham cracker to dunk in the chocolate, thus finishing off the meal in style. I visualized writing a recipe book, having it published, going on a road-trip to sell it, and making a million dollars.
      My mother pushed aside her stack of papers and re-scraped the leavings from the sides of her yogurt bowl. “You’re doing Bellona’s sob-stories, Daddy tells me,” she said, licking the spoon. My mother and I are alike in some ways.
      I said, “I am, indeed, and doing okay, I think.” Fredly was biting at my ankle, a way of brushing her teeth or telling me she is still hungry. Or possibly I have adopted an insane vampire cat. I chuckled at the image. My mother thought I was laughing about my new job.
      “If you were to take it seriously,” she said, “you might make a name for yourself in the world of journalism. Some money there until the Internet swamps it.” She wiped a tuna-mix spot from a math paper with the back of her hand.