+ drywall nightmare 51 +
Busy weekend. Took care of some stuff yesterday and then sorta put things away in my room later. Still have stacks of my law books kickin’ around my bed, and those’re just an accident waitin’ to happen. Already tripped up on the big crim textbooks I left near the door, but I don’t really know what to do with them. All the utopian/dystopian literature I lined up underneath my discs, on the cinderblock shelves; those were all novel-size books and actually fuckin’ tucked into a niche. Filed away some of the bigger papers I wrote, most of the notes from the still-relevant classes--dunno, didn’t get much sleep last night. S’not anythin’ new, I guess, and I got in some halfway decent guitar practice ‘till it got really late. Sorry, Tenten--were you even around? I just kinda dumped myself into my room by the time I got back.
And yeah, today. Promised the twins I wouldn’t bail on ‘em, especially after yesterday, and so we did the whole “What the fuck, Dad” Day down at the clinic. Yuzu cooked, I washed dishes, Karin punched him in the face when the time was right--the usual. Tried to get him into some sorta hobby again, and this year we tried the Gameboy SP route. I dunno--I’m skeptical. Ain’t nothin’ that’s kept him to himself for more than a week before. Rukia, I guess my Dad says hi. Somethin’ about ducklings (was it chicks?) and grandkids and me bein’ worthless crap so I feel like that was sorta the point.
Back to work.
Ten years.
I feel fuckin’ exhausted. Every year it’s the same goddamn thing (early picnic, forced bravado, Dad smokin’ a cigarette), and every year I feel like someone choked somethin’ outta me afterward. People’re supposed to be fondly remembered, right, or gradually forgotten. But I can’t forget. I wanna say it’s easier for the twins, ‘cause they were pretty young, and maybe easier for Dad ‘cause he didn’t see it. He got the Family, the remainder, and had to focus on makin’ sure we weren’t gonna turn in and die ourselves rather than the nasty part. Courts failed. Justice failed. Everythin’ fuckin’ failed, except that somehow I’m still here and Ma’s gone.
There’s really no point in writin’ about this. Bet if I flipped back a year it’d be the same bullshit “fuck my life” stuff that’s goin’ on now. I just don’t know what I’m doin’ anymore. Next year I’m gonna be a senior, and no step closer to any real direction. Detective? Yeah, that’s the only thing I’ve been pushin’ for since grade school--couldn’t let go of the idea that maybe I’d be findin’ out what really happened. But now I know that’s impossible, people say I’m wastin’ my time and talent (for fuckin’ what?!), and I don’t know if I want to throw myself so wholeheartedly away anymore either. S’lonely work, and I’m tryin’ to drag myself outta that solitude I’ve trained for.
Pain’s supposed to remind you that you’re alive. Supposedly, in the whole realm of Buddhist, eastern philosophy, if you ain’t sufferin’, you’re closer to death than you’ve ever been to life. I dunno. Kinda wish I could turn it off--s’like lickin’ a knife blade.
There’s a box under my bed I should really get rid of. I imagine it like one of those totem things, some sorta relic that manifests wrong from that which should be fundamentally good. They’re just things, but I got ‘em under my bed, and I can never sleep, and all the fuckin’ nightmares...
I think there’s something wrong with me.
And yeah, today. Promised the twins I wouldn’t bail on ‘em, especially after yesterday, and so we did the whole “What the fuck, Dad” Day down at the clinic. Yuzu cooked, I washed dishes, Karin punched him in the face when the time was right--the usual. Tried to get him into some sorta hobby again, and this year we tried the Gameboy SP route. I dunno--I’m skeptical. Ain’t nothin’ that’s kept him to himself for more than a week before. Rukia, I guess my Dad says hi. Somethin’ about ducklings (was it chicks?) and grandkids and me bein’ worthless crap so I feel like that was sorta the point.
Back to work.
Ten years.
I feel fuckin’ exhausted. Every year it’s the same goddamn thing (early picnic, forced bravado, Dad smokin’ a cigarette), and every year I feel like someone choked somethin’ outta me afterward. People’re supposed to be fondly remembered, right, or gradually forgotten. But I can’t forget. I wanna say it’s easier for the twins, ‘cause they were pretty young, and maybe easier for Dad ‘cause he didn’t see it. He got the Family, the remainder, and had to focus on makin’ sure we weren’t gonna turn in and die ourselves rather than the nasty part. Courts failed. Justice failed. Everythin’ fuckin’ failed, except that somehow I’m still here and Ma’s gone.
There’s really no point in writin’ about this. Bet if I flipped back a year it’d be the same bullshit “fuck my life” stuff that’s goin’ on now. I just don’t know what I’m doin’ anymore. Next year I’m gonna be a senior, and no step closer to any real direction. Detective? Yeah, that’s the only thing I’ve been pushin’ for since grade school--couldn’t let go of the idea that maybe I’d be findin’ out what really happened. But now I know that’s impossible, people say I’m wastin’ my time and talent (for fuckin’ what?!), and I don’t know if I want to throw myself so wholeheartedly away anymore either. S’lonely work, and I’m tryin’ to drag myself outta that solitude I’ve trained for.
Pain’s supposed to remind you that you’re alive. Supposedly, in the whole realm of Buddhist, eastern philosophy, if you ain’t sufferin’, you’re closer to death than you’ve ever been to life. I dunno. Kinda wish I could turn it off--s’like lickin’ a knife blade.
There’s a box under my bed I should really get rid of. I imagine it like one of those totem things, some sorta relic that manifests wrong from that which should be fundamentally good. They’re just things, but I got ‘em under my bed, and I can never sleep, and all the fuckin’ nightmares...
I think there’s something wrong with me.