I hate mornings. But hardly anymore than I hate afternoons, and and just a tad more than I hate evenings. Night is good. Night is when all the stupid people go to sleep. My cell phone blares an mindless pop hit. I throw it on my floor, stupid thing keeps singing about how it loves it's boyfriend. Whatever. Why don't people make clothes that don't have words on them? I'm not a billboard. Jeans and a shirt advertising some stupid store my sister shopped at. Tip-toe though the kitchen because there's a drunk guy on the couch. Grab a banana. Yellow school bus. Sit next to some girl who thinks I know her. Stacy? Tracy? Meaghan? School. Teachers ask why my paper isn't done? Cause there was a drunken brawl in my living room last night and I didn't think I could focus on the rivers of South America with my stupid drunk mother trying to get me to have a beer. No, I didn't have time, maybe I had soccer practice, or was at Tracy, Stacy, Meagan's. Whatever floats the boat. Bus home with Tracy, Stacey or Meagan. Drunk guy is gone. Mum's on the sofa with a beer vaguely watching Oprah. Homework done, downstairs cleaning the kitchen. It's trashed. My mother tells me she's having a few friends over. I lock the laundry room, last time she had a 'few' friends over someone vomited in the washing machine. In bed by midnight. Repeat.
April 10, 2010