tonight was going to be me writing in here with a six pack, because i am in desperate need of a release valve. instead, here's an e-mail i sent.
I swear to god...I swear directly to jesus, the savior, who shall return, I swear right in that prophet's face that in our house, our home, there will be NO alcohol, NO smoking, and NO disgusting lunchmeats. I said it. Disgusting lunch meats.
No beer, no wine, no hard liquors.
No marlboros, no parliaments, no salems.
No provolone cheese, no salami, no pastrami.
Everything here makes me sick. It's draining me. I went to start the dishes, and there was a doused cigarette in a half emptied cup of coffee.
I shouted right at Jesus for that one.
My dad hasn't been drinking (supposedly) since his accident, I guess bc of the medication he's supposed to be taking. But I swear, his aura wreaks of old beer cans. That terrible bottom of the bottle/can that the sober fear. Stale, and musty, and heavy like fog. And every word, every sentence, and every sigh fills the room with a yellowing suffocation.
My mother's smoking is to the point where if she doesn't have cancer or some early signs of it yet, then she's staving it off through tobacco. Seriously. When she coughs, it could wake the dead. When she laughs, she coughs, and everything just stops being funny. Once per conversation, she gets caught up in a coughing fit. Her breath smells like coffee and wine and cigarettes, so it's hard to get close.
My parents, see, they're deteriorating.
Jesus, are you listening?
I see this, and I wonder what people do to each other. Will one day come where you'll wish me to stop playing my video games, or listening to my music, or writing my words, or reading my graphic novels, or watching my anime? Will a day come when I want you to stop painting, or singing, or enjoying indie movies? Is that what marriage and life-ever-after is?
I can't ever say a sentence that starts:
"My dad is really into..."
"My mom would be so excited for..."
These aren't people, they're just caretakers.
And I think the best way to describe living with my sister goes something like what's happened in the past week. She comes home saturday night, drunk, at three in the morning and by four am, I'm already hearing her having sex... AGAIN. The next two days, I don't see her because her door's closed and she's napping, she's showering, or she's out working or getting work done or tying wayy too many on. Like fucking anchors. Tuesday, she really wants a slurpee but won't come with me to get one, just the two of us. She REALLY "wants to fucking see" 28 Weeks Later, but turns down an invite to come with us. For free. Wednesday she's nowhere to be found until later in the afternoon when her skin's been torched. "At the beach, and then tanning," she explains.
Dying by the light.
This morning, a Saturday, I wake up to mom cough-leaving minutes before my sister storms down then up the stairs. She screams in her room at no one for everyone to hear. We're used to this, so we don't react. She squeaks. She comes downstairs slamming doors wherever she can find one. Back up the stairs, another yell. "Kay," is what I'm thinking. Nothing is what I'm saying. By the time she leaves and it's okay to leave my room, I go downstairs to find nothing new. 2007, 1999, 1997, nothing new. An upturned hamper, a pair of jeans on the table, yadda yadda yadda. She probably couldn't find a clean pair of whatever.
She says mom's "a fucking idiot," because of something to do with laundry. This, because everyone here is afraid to tell her that she's a pathetic alcoholic who can't wash her own clothes. that's the kind of thing I'd tell her if I could, but I can't, because there's always the excuses from the mother.
23 years old.
And then there's the whole "at least I have a job" thing that I'm sure they'll fall back on, completely rendering my argument useless.
Hours later, after I finish my pizza, my father comes in here and makes a sandwich, sitting down, and saying, "hey would you mind getting [everything]." The smell still hanging heavy, he makes a horrible-meat sandwich (read above), and when done, he cleans his mouth for seven minutes. Breathing heavily, licking his gums, his teeth, sucking at food particles everywhere. The sorts of noises that are impossible to ignore, even on a subway car at rush hour.
Anytime we eat dinner together, a majority of their conversation is done with mouths full of whatever.
I wonder where I come from.
You ask why I'm sad sometimes, and this is just a brief look at that.
I'm so sick of everything here.