News Flash: I didn't come home to be bitched at.
Spent the last few days lurking around some apartment in Gainesville. Then I clamber into the car of the Elders in Tallahassee and four seconds later they're interrogating me about all that had happend. All offense meant here, but it's not your god damn business.
So, Mommie Dearest got a new job. New house. New life. You want to fuck it up? Find someone else to be your lackey.
Then I get back to the house and set up Papaya again. Instantly barraged by five people believing that I'd died. Golly gee, that was the best feeling.
Maybe I should leave more often. It would sure cut down on some things.
In other resolutions: I refuse to talk any longer. Sure, I'll type. I'll write. I might even carve something onto the wall in a manic frenzy. Verbalization shall just be beyond me for a while.
There is just no point in talking when everyone just wants you to shut up.