Alone.

I rarely get a moment to myself in this house. Anything that requires more breathing room than listening to a discman while doing beadwork is literally voided from my extra curricular activities. Even watching T.V. becomes an annoyance admist the busy kitchen and the table saw sliding it's way through fresh planks of wood, almost daily.

In this house, you feel guilty for doing nothing. And when you do the somethings that you crave, you feel worse. So writing a blog, is generally a guilt ridden activity and it bothers me that I do not visit the activity more because in many ways, it's insanely theraputic.

So many things have happened that should own single and outstanding posts, devoted completely to the magic or misery of their impacts, but when I find time, or find the words to write them, it tends to be the middle of the night, or just impossible.

My grandmother died last Saturday. I'm angry at myself for not being able to grieve. There's this overwhelmingly large void in the pit of me that's making me feel even less of a person as each day passes and I don't know how to rid myself of it. Crying and "talking" about my "problems" doesn't work. It never has, especially in my family.
I'm angry at my father for being a stupid, little, cowardly brat. I KNOW IT SUCKS DAD, THAT YOU HAVE TO SEE ALL THE PEOPLE THAT YOU THINK HATE YOU FOR LEAVING MY MOTHER, BUT DON'T HIDE IN A CORNER AT YOUR MOTHER'S FUNERAL.

IT ISN'T ABOUT YOU.

AND DON'T TELL ME THAT MY GRANDMOTHER PASSED AWAY IN THE MIDDLE OF YOUR WEEKEND GATHERING OF JACKASSES. YOU FUCKING PRICK.

Actually now, I can't tell if the void in the bottom of my being is from the death of my grandmother, or from the birthing of the realisation that my father will always, eternally be a fuckwit.

Tau visited yesterday. In the midst of the chit-chat and the mind-numbing art-fag slang that she's adobted from "if you got a cock and you're a jock, you can go to BROCK," the suspicions of her molestation of a child appeared in the back of my Tercel.

"So yeah, since I can't remember my childhood, I think I was molested. That's why I think I have a problem with sex."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, I think my brother did it, and I think my father molested him, so that's why he did it to me."

Maybe you have a problem with sex Tau because the men you've had sex with are assholes and inconsiderate of your feelings and dislikes. Obviously, I'm the pot and you're black, but at least I'm smart enough to see my forest for the trees and not go on a bender of pointed fingers and false accusations based on a bad memory.
But honestly, you probably did get molested as a chlid. Because we all did. In some mental, or physical or other life-altering way because that's all the world exists of these days: MOLESTORS.

Today I realised that I'm so tired of being in the middle of all this misery. And the older I grow, the more I realise that it bores me to tears because being an angry, silly and awful person is annoyingly stupid and just plain easy.

So I listened to Ben Folds and from him I got this:

"The cruelest lies are often spoke without a word. The kindest truths are often spoke, but never heard."

And that's when I realised that there's no exscuses.