Aftermath

My shoulder is fucking killing me. It’s bad enough that I can barely stay in my bed, but now I’m sleeping wrong when I don’t get up? 

Totally fucking spoiled my morning. Jessica’s party was great, too; she had these amazing drinks there, I forget what they’re called or what was in them, but I seriously underestimated how potent they’d be. I lost a whole fucking hour there between the third and the fourth round. 

As for feelings, doctor, I’m really not doing so great with those. I swear dad’s drinking more than me, because he got mad at me for staying out too late. I got home at 12, dad, lay off. That’s a fucking generous time, too, since I guessed that I’d probably here it from you if I stayed out any later. He’s screeching about 2 am, when the stove clock said 12:14 when I got in. 

I don’t really remember it well, alright? I was fucking tired, I don’t even remember crawling under the covers. But I woke up in my underwear, so I clearly went to sleep. 

You can stop lecturing me about what granddad would fucking want, dad, that’s not doing fuck-all. You’re making such a big fucking deal out of his death when he never fucking paid attention to me until three fucking months before he died, okay!? I was never the favourite grandkid, please fucking deal with that! I’m fucking managing, so why can’t you?

Well, would you look at the time. My brain’s telling me it’s time to get away from this bullshit for the rest of the evening. Think I’ll pay attention.