Call me old-fashioned, but I only want my sons to marry women with dead mothers. It’s my only shot at staying relevant, of seeming useful, and of winning by comparison. Having boys is a mind fuck. It builds you up, only to tear you apart. I’m not a stay-at-home mom; I have a job, a dog, and twelve to fifteen things I’m considering buying off the Real Real at all times. But none of that seems to matter, because as a mother of sons, the red pill and the blue pill both lead to the same place: OBLIVION.