Who hasn't played a game?
Guess what inspires people more than any other entity? Fear.
My mother has been unraveled because of my father. You see, I do believe Mr. Coleman's brain has been decimated by his constant use of cocaine. For whatever reason, after my mother divorced him, he snapped. Today he was found lurking in the bathroom at my mother's office; apparently he was laying low there in the company stalls, and on Monday he intended to assault her. Luckily, he was promptly halted by the Saturday crew who chased the intruder out of the lew like villagers parading Frankenstein out of the dreamland they hold dear.
So it's a very few hours after the villagers did their service and my mother is in hysterics. Crying for the last 4 hours: she's upset that she's upset, she's upset that Mr. Coleman's alive, she's upset about the "what ifs."
"What if I would have been there on Monday and him still there?"
But, oh, she's more illogical than that as well.
"What if he burns the house down?"
"What if he kills everyone I love?"
Obviously my father is physchotic, the schizophrenia inducing narcotics don't help any.
I plead with whomever has eyes to read this whimsy journal of sorrow, slip my mother a valium to subdue her craving for child's play. Similarly, slip my father arsenic, to subdue his focusing eyes and beating heart.
I do not wish him dead, I do not wish him life. I wish his absence.
My mother has been unraveled because of my father. You see, I do believe Mr. Coleman's brain has been decimated by his constant use of cocaine. For whatever reason, after my mother divorced him, he snapped. Today he was found lurking in the bathroom at my mother's office; apparently he was laying low there in the company stalls, and on Monday he intended to assault her. Luckily, he was promptly halted by the Saturday crew who chased the intruder out of the lew like villagers parading Frankenstein out of the dreamland they hold dear.
So it's a very few hours after the villagers did their service and my mother is in hysterics. Crying for the last 4 hours: she's upset that she's upset, she's upset that Mr. Coleman's alive, she's upset about the "what ifs."
"What if I would have been there on Monday and him still there?"
But, oh, she's more illogical than that as well.
"What if he burns the house down?"
"What if he kills everyone I love?"
Obviously my father is physchotic, the schizophrenia inducing narcotics don't help any.
I plead with whomever has eyes to read this whimsy journal of sorrow, slip my mother a valium to subdue her craving for child's play. Similarly, slip my father arsenic, to subdue his focusing eyes and beating heart.
I do not wish him dead, I do not wish him life. I wish his absence.