WHORE

My god...I've been so happy. I really, really have, like I haven't been in such a long time. And all of it means nothing. At all.

My dad came home from Germany today. Me, Kevin, and my gramma all did the whole hug and greet routine, and then he went upstairs. Within moments, the argument starts. Part of me was wondering what they were fighting about, what was so important that they needed to fight about it so soon after his arrival, but the stronger part of me really didn't care. I just wanted them to stop. Soon it elevated to a point where when I was talking to my gramma sitting across the table, I couldnt hear her. Just the rambles and random idiocies spewing from the whore upstairs.

I hoped she was blessed with the deafness that normally came with old age. She tries so hard to be able to come out here during the summer, and she could spend the time with her sister, my Aunt Rosa, who treats her like a queen. Always ready to do whatever, go wherever, if she so desired. But no, for some reason I still ponder, she's here. Summer after summer, winter after winter, she is here.

And you know what is ruining everything. Shellie. Just her. Really, every single god damn thing is traced back to her. So when she called me to work in the kitchen, I muttered "I Hate You" under my breath, and couldn't will myself to move. She came again, and with great reluctance, my joints bent, and I went to the kitchen.

Interesting how today is the first day she's cooked since my dad left for Germany. And how funny is it that my dad thought he straightened that problem out. "Even when hes not here, you still need to keep up that ruse of motherhood." I wish I could say that. But its funny, because I often do. I always say "A mother is supposed to__________" but then, she just says "I dont have to do anything." What-fucking-ever.

When I forgot to set the table just right now, she came into my room and roared, "What are you doing, what makes you think you have to set the table?" Have I ever mentioned, I FUCKING HATE THE WAY SHE SPEAKS TO ME. LIKE I'M A FUCKING INFANT WHO NEEDS TO BE REMINDED OF EVERY FUCKING THING. GOD FUCKING SHIT, WORDS DO NOT DESCRIBE HOW MUCH I HATE IT. How much my temperature rises when I begin to think about her words. Gah.

What I was trying to say before that new thread of anger consumed me, was that I hate her system of everything. How I'm assigned to do everything. When she's here, everything is a rigid structure of unneeded rules, really only beneficial to her. When she was gone, it was just my gramma and I, and sometimes my brother, everything just worked. We would go into the kitchen, sometimes the table was set, and if it wasn't, we would just go do it. Not under compliance with any form of rule, just because it had to be done. Perfect balance of everything. It just worked. Everything, just worked. It's the same way when we're here with my dad. But no, heaven forbid Shellie might have to contribute to that system, the universal good. She's a person who will only do work, if they know that it will get them out of doing something else. God damn. I hate it. I'm sick of it. We all are.

And she wonders why instead of donating the other half of my bunkbed to Goodwill, my dad decided to put it to use, giving Shellie her own room. Because he's disgusted with him self for waking up next to her in the mornings.

I just want her to go.

Now