So with the moving into the new house, I get first choice of rooms. Then my brother gets second choice. The one that neither of us chooses will become the guest room. And...In my eyes, that means that room is my gramma's room...But apparently nobody else sees it like that. The way it's all setup right now, she has the smallest room, upstairs (meaning more walking to go to the bathroom than anybody else in the house), furthest from my and my bro's room (and the whole reason she comes is too see us). And this is how my dad justifies this.
"I don't see her living much longer"
God damn. He keeps saying that he wants us to know, so we can accept the reality. Yeah, I accepted when I was 8, and my days were split between hoping she was alive and fearing she was dead. And now I get reminded every single time we talk abuot her.
W/e
I need...something to happen. Someone to say something to me at the wrong time, wrong place. I need to yell, and release all the worries, let my rage just explode and destroy them. Yeah, shards of regret will be scattered around the floor, but I can deal with that. I just hate worrying about everyword I say, everything I do, I hate being afriad of nothing, and I hate it more when there is actually something to be afriad. I'm sick of hopes that crash and burn, explode. The roars of fire turning to laughs and mockery. I want to be free of all of this.
B-l-e-h
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2 comments:
wait.. that quote at the top.. whose?
ah yes. secondhand serenade. ok.
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