Gobble, Gobble The Spanikopitas are Nice.

It's hard to account for the things that have happened this week that I probably want to write about, but can't be arsed to. Recollecting past emotions that seem so powerful in a minute seem so dull now. Perhaps I should try to fix that.

It was 'Merican Thanks Giving on Thursday and my belly has been stuffed by lots of Turkey and mashed potatoes. Stan and Step-Mom-Miriam had to push the celebrations back a day for the sake of their half-finished home. Funny that they would go to such an extent for a holiday that only one person in my half-family considers worth celebrating. Silliness.
I made two pumpkin pies and wicked good spanikopitas, which I was tremendously proud of. Sticking your hands in hot and slimey spinach is some sick shit. Watching the green juice run down your arms as you squeeze all the excess liquid out is worse. I was slimed by a vegetable. Blech.
Andrew came for the fesitivites, so did my Aunt Ruth and Uncle Paul. It was the average Oster TG, with my Uncle's constant complaints for the distaste of his job and his disturbing fart comments, that made me quiver with disgust. Oh the Oster clan. Top notch individuals, I assure you.

My father. What an idiot. I of course am the only person with the priviledge of admitting his stupidity openly and honestly. Talk shit about my mom, but as soon as you mark my father's reputation, you're done for. I suppose this sympathy for a man that doesn't deserve it, is the root of all my misdeeds with men, who don't deserve me.
Mir and Dad are attempting to finish and furnish the upstairs portion of the massively expensive addition to their humble cottage on Pleasant Ave. The entire procedure is completely counter-productive and quite stupid. It's also very hard to sleep through. Why someone decides that it's a good idea to hang paintings before the room has been painted, is beyond me. Deciding to furnish the room, before the floor has been laid, also a puzzle. But such are the ways of middle aged individuals with no realistic grasp on life and it's quirks.
And of course, Pappa O has finally neglected his computer enough to make it break. I've been telling him for over a year now, "Fix your god damned lap top. Your porn viruses are going to make it obselete." Obviously, they did and now diddums ain't got no computer to access her blog. I feel like less of a person for doing so. I love you blogger. Tickle. Kiss. Hug. Etc.

My relationship with Josh has turned a strange and cold corner. Where as before, my feelings for him were so strong and ample, they seem now to be nothing more than a sole coal, burning bravely in a sparse fire.
The desire and drive that was there for whatever reason seems to have faded drastically and I think I do the things I'm doing just to keep that passion glowing because it's a sad thing to loose. I expected these feelings to calm, more so because they're obviously one sided and neglected. Also because there's no reason to continue having them. Also because Josh can't figure out where he stands in our friendship and his inability to understand is making it difficult for me to continue being so consistant.
He told me once that he couldn't give his wife a reason as to why he loved her when she asked him why. I suppose now, Josh can't tell anyone how he feels about them; not because he doesn't want to, but just because he just doesn't know. He's told me this a million times, but I'm just realising the impact of his emotional and verbal disability. I think perhaps, he'll suffer more than me, in the long run.

At the end of the week, I managed to make sixty dollars by running a box of, "How to Become A Profitable Investor" pamphlets to Buffalo. Sixty bones, I'm fucking loaded.