(no subject)
Its not even noon and its already a frustrating day.
Its not so much an issue of an assortment of minor irritating instances, but rather one lengthy ordeal.
Anyway, as this true story goes...About an hour and a half ago, I was awakened prematurely by a furious knocking on my front door. How long ago the knocking actually began, I know not when, it seemed a long time before I was fully roused from my slumber. Anyway, upon answering the door, I was confronted by a most furious black woman. She was a mother, apparently, and an angry one at that. Now, at first, I expected this to be another parent whose angry was spawned by the reckless escapades of my younger brother. However, as it turns out, this was not the case. On the contrary, her angry was directed, in fact, at my younger, twelve-year-old sister; ah, the plot thickens. Now, as this very angry negro woman told me, and she did so at great length and repetition, apparently my sister decided to skip school along with her little friend down the road. Anyway, this mother, as she tells me, came home to discover my sister and my sister's friend in her home, undressed, in her fifteen-year-old son's bed. She told me how she and her sisters had to force the locked door open, only to find the girls had fled and gone. She continued to tell me of how her son rampaged; something which I cared little to know.
Well, to, more or less, conclude this summarized tale, this angry woman retold the story to my mother, who was difficult enough to contact in the first place. And, when my mother got home, for she left, I tell you, the angry negro woman's anger paled, paled I tell you, in comparison to that of my most furious mother, who is, at this moment talking to her, inbetween bouts of angry yelling. I can hear the shame and disappointment in her voice at her daughter's actions and I can see that my sister will get no considerable freedom for a while.
And here I am, relating these events to those of you who will read. Now, I realize that many of you may believe that this tale of anger and woe is none of your concern, however, I find that this is perhaps the quietest, least violent method of venting my own frustrations. If you happen to find that you would rather not have read this summary of events, then I apologize to you, my little audience.
And with that I bid you all adieu.
Its not so much an issue of an assortment of minor irritating instances, but rather one lengthy ordeal.
Anyway, as this true story goes...About an hour and a half ago, I was awakened prematurely by a furious knocking on my front door. How long ago the knocking actually began, I know not when, it seemed a long time before I was fully roused from my slumber. Anyway, upon answering the door, I was confronted by a most furious black woman. She was a mother, apparently, and an angry one at that. Now, at first, I expected this to be another parent whose angry was spawned by the reckless escapades of my younger brother. However, as it turns out, this was not the case. On the contrary, her angry was directed, in fact, at my younger, twelve-year-old sister; ah, the plot thickens. Now, as this very angry negro woman told me, and she did so at great length and repetition, apparently my sister decided to skip school along with her little friend down the road. Anyway, this mother, as she tells me, came home to discover my sister and my sister's friend in her home, undressed, in her fifteen-year-old son's bed. She told me how she and her sisters had to force the locked door open, only to find the girls had fled and gone. She continued to tell me of how her son rampaged; something which I cared little to know.
Well, to, more or less, conclude this summarized tale, this angry woman retold the story to my mother, who was difficult enough to contact in the first place. And, when my mother got home, for she left, I tell you, the angry negro woman's anger paled, paled I tell you, in comparison to that of my most furious mother, who is, at this moment talking to her, inbetween bouts of angry yelling. I can hear the shame and disappointment in her voice at her daughter's actions and I can see that my sister will get no considerable freedom for a while.
And here I am, relating these events to those of you who will read. Now, I realize that many of you may believe that this tale of anger and woe is none of your concern, however, I find that this is perhaps the quietest, least violent method of venting my own frustrations. If you happen to find that you would rather not have read this summary of events, then I apologize to you, my little audience.
And with that I bid you all adieu.