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I'm totally going to attempt cheesecake making tonight. Meanwhile, I'll just sit here and eat chocolate frosting with a spoon. You all -wish- you had girlfriends (boyfriends) as cool as I am.
So I've been kicking this one around for a few days, but here's the one thing I learned in Florida that I really need to get off my chest: It turns out that my father was the one illegally writing the prescription that my stepfather was abusing the night he tried to kill me. The creamy filling to the whole ridiculous debacle is that the whole reason he didn't want me to move in with them was because he was ashamed and didn't want to be reminded of it except on the weekends when they needed me to watch my brothers. So the moral of the story is that if my father hadn't been willfully childish, I wouldn't have been homeless before I was old enough to buy cigarettes.
Dude. It's one thing to know that your dad's a dick, but it's quite another to have evidence of it. I figured they just didn't want me because they didn't want me, which is something I'm familiar with; that all started with the divorce when I was four. And let's not forget that this is the man that spends excessive amounts of time explaining to me that I'm selfish and only out for myself.
Well, yeah.
I've put up with an astonishing amount of shit and gotten through it with my galoshes intact, but this little news bite has just rocked me. It never ceases to amaze me how just when I think I've moved past things something new and different jumps up and hockey sticks me in the kneecap. Being home has helped, but it's going to take me a few more days to recover. I feel worthless and unloveable, smaller than the smallest small, and I hate that. It would have been $300 better spent to invest in a therapist rather than a plane ticket.
But cheescake is good, and that's pretty important. Cooking is good, and goofy movies are good. Rain is good and so is kissing, and shiny red shoes are good.
Looking for a new job is good.
The icing container says that I should keep it in the fridge for up to two weeks, and it's been way more than that. Does this mean that I actually -will- die of icing poisoning like I always say, or is it just teasing?
So I've been kicking this one around for a few days, but here's the one thing I learned in Florida that I really need to get off my chest: It turns out that my father was the one illegally writing the prescription that my stepfather was abusing the night he tried to kill me. The creamy filling to the whole ridiculous debacle is that the whole reason he didn't want me to move in with them was because he was ashamed and didn't want to be reminded of it except on the weekends when they needed me to watch my brothers. So the moral of the story is that if my father hadn't been willfully childish, I wouldn't have been homeless before I was old enough to buy cigarettes.
Dude. It's one thing to know that your dad's a dick, but it's quite another to have evidence of it. I figured they just didn't want me because they didn't want me, which is something I'm familiar with; that all started with the divorce when I was four. And let's not forget that this is the man that spends excessive amounts of time explaining to me that I'm selfish and only out for myself.
Well, yeah.
I've put up with an astonishing amount of shit and gotten through it with my galoshes intact, but this little news bite has just rocked me. It never ceases to amaze me how just when I think I've moved past things something new and different jumps up and hockey sticks me in the kneecap. Being home has helped, but it's going to take me a few more days to recover. I feel worthless and unloveable, smaller than the smallest small, and I hate that. It would have been $300 better spent to invest in a therapist rather than a plane ticket.
But cheescake is good, and that's pretty important. Cooking is good, and goofy movies are good. Rain is good and so is kissing, and shiny red shoes are good.
Looking for a new job is good.
The icing container says that I should keep it in the fridge for up to two weeks, and it's been way more than that. Does this mean that I actually -will- die of icing poisoning like I always say, or is it just teasing?
