Painful Alone
I used to read redwall books a lot at a kid. They took me away, better than any TV show to places where small rodents and whatnot fought each other with bigass swords.
I was really comfortable in their world, I felt like if Josh showed up and was like, "sup, furry animals, I'm your bro," they would give me mulderberry mincemeat chophappy pie with butterroot-upon-crapwood wine I would be happy. Then they would all go out and kill a fox in full armor. I would join in the killing witha three headed mace or whatever and we would then proceed to enjoy more of that wine.
Anyway, I would always go travelling with my mother and sister that was seven years my younger. I only say it that way because I like how it sounds. I would always go with my mom on these extended trips and knowing how up-and-down she was I would become incredibly depressed, waiting for the good times to come (if there were going to be any) and mostly buffing off her incredible anger and venting on stupidity while I played husband. (You know, figuring out the maps, carrying luggage, looking like an intimidating male companion even though I was a little pussy whelp.)
I would always run to these books as a way to escape dealing with the depressing predicament I was in. Looking back a lot I was very depressed with my situation, no dad and a lot of sort of half shitty father figures. I figured if I could take every second to escape and be alone wiht my mice with weapons I could be ok.
I still live my life escaping from my family. I should deal with them, but I sit here drinking a bit thinking about their stories of horrible alcoholism dodging worse drug use and the like. I guess I'm pretty normal.
I have to deal with a kitten with pinkeye. At least there are pumpkins to smash in the backyard. Jezebel's, I like them all, they aren't my real problem; sweet girls all around but "I'm sure you're joking, Mr. Moran."
Steel reserve, you're a shithead but here I come.
I was really comfortable in their world, I felt like if Josh showed up and was like, "sup, furry animals, I'm your bro," they would give me mulderberry mincemeat chophappy pie with butterroot-upon-crapwood wine I would be happy. Then they would all go out and kill a fox in full armor. I would join in the killing witha three headed mace or whatever and we would then proceed to enjoy more of that wine.
Anyway, I would always go travelling with my mother and sister that was seven years my younger. I only say it that way because I like how it sounds. I would always go with my mom on these extended trips and knowing how up-and-down she was I would become incredibly depressed, waiting for the good times to come (if there were going to be any) and mostly buffing off her incredible anger and venting on stupidity while I played husband. (You know, figuring out the maps, carrying luggage, looking like an intimidating male companion even though I was a little pussy whelp.)
I would always run to these books as a way to escape dealing with the depressing predicament I was in. Looking back a lot I was very depressed with my situation, no dad and a lot of sort of half shitty father figures. I figured if I could take every second to escape and be alone wiht my mice with weapons I could be ok.
I still live my life escaping from my family. I should deal with them, but I sit here drinking a bit thinking about their stories of horrible alcoholism dodging worse drug use and the like. I guess I'm pretty normal.
I have to deal with a kitten with pinkeye. At least there are pumpkins to smash in the backyard. Jezebel's, I like them all, they aren't my real problem; sweet girls all around but "I'm sure you're joking, Mr. Moran."
Steel reserve, you're a shithead but here I come.