Dad’s having a fucking fit, again. Nothing new here; he’s been hitting the bottle ever since granddad hit the dirt.
I’m sorry if I don’t fucking like staying cooped up in the house all night, I guess? I’m sorry that I have a fucking social life, and friends who like having a good time? I’m sorry that they like me enough to invite me to every get-together they have?
No offense, Dr. Rosenthal, but your little therapy sessions don’t fucking do anything for me. I don’t feel better when I’m in-session with you, I feel trapped. There’s nothing to do in your office except think about granddad dying, over and over and over and over.
So yeah, I go out a lot. I can’t help it if there’s a party every other night of the week. I’m fucking glad things are that busy, because I can forget about all this fucking bullshit in the music and the drinks and the dancing. It’s not like I sleep well anyway, right? Somnambulism sure is a bitch. At least if I pass out at a party, I’ll wake up somewhere that kind of makes sense, or is at least hilarious; not halfway down the fucking staircase at 3 am.
And dad, you can scream and shout all you fucking want, but I’m going to go out again. Probably tonight, actually; Leena’s place.
If you still can’t understand why, try reading the fucking title of this post again.
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