Current mood:

cranky

Minor Rantage
I was in Wal Mart today and walked past the Father's Day card display. And nearly broke down right there in the floor. I was driving across the Palmetto bridge back into Bradenton and was listening to Diamond Rio's "You're Gone" and staring at the stormy sky and cried.

My father's gone.

I know that. I know he's not here anymore. And I know there's nothing I can do to help my mother and brother deal with that fact. Quite frankly, I'm tired of trying. Is that wrong of me? Am I a bad person for feeling that way? I'm not entirely sure. But I do know that there is absolutely nothing I can do to make them feel better about it. When dealing with this sort of grief and pain, each and every person has to haul themselves out of that rut; that's just the way it is.

I'm not going to say I've done everything I can; I haven't drug my mother to counseling (although she did go by herself), I can't bash my brother over the head because he's a moron and doesn't want to grow the fuck up, I can't hug either of them and comfort them when they're sad. Because I'm not there. I'm in Florida. Am I sorry about it? Not really, no. That's just the way things are. And I'm tired of feeling guilty about it. Because I know that even if I was there, it wouldn't make much difference, except me getting frustrated and even angrier about certain things.

...I guess that does make me an evil, heartless bitch. Tough.

To make matters worse, my creativity's been squashed. Again. It's not a big deal - although it worries me every time it happens, although I know it'll eventually come back - but I didn't want it to go so soon. Maybe if I'd have not let myself get so sucked into that world again, it would have left quietly and gently, not yanking my very heart out like it did when it packed up, picked up and hauled off to Bermuda.

And yes, I blame people. But it's a moot point anyway, because number one: if you're really that pathetic to have to get your kicks and justify your life by being a drama whore on the damned internet...I think you need a job or some other constructive way to expend your energy. Christ, get a life, please. Number two: I'm too old to give a good goat-shit about kids and their wank. I'll be thirty in less than a month. Go wank some pathetic seventeen year old who still cares what other people think about them. And enjoy it. (But you might want to see number one again, especially that remark about a job, because you obviously have too much time on your hands.)

Granted, I'm not as creative as Natalie, but I do have friends who have access to some rather impressive high-powered military explosives and weaponry and, just by a strange twist of chance, adore me and owe me a few favors. Don't piss me off, sports fans. You might want to check underneath your car and make sure there's nothing blinking, or be very careful when you open your fridge, turn on your computer or when you sit to shit. These guys rule.

I like to rp. The freaking world knows that. But it's going to be done on my terms, because my stores are akin to my children. I spent a lot of time on them and take a boatload of pride in the results of my time and efforts. Don't like it? Think it's crazy? Fuck off and get ass-raped elsewhere. I'm too mean and uncaring to give a damn about your opinions.

So yeah, this year's been pretty shitty for me, but know what? I'm a tough cookie and even thought I might crumble a little bit, I'll never break. I won't stay down and I won't drown, not even if some gnat's cunt pours an entire gallon of milk. Trust me. I've survived a lot and plan on surviving a lot more, everyone else be damned.

Comment or not, I don't rightly care. Flame and I hope to Almighty God your ass is well lubricated, for a textual light pole will be shoved up some ass cheeks and you'll choke on the tar coating. I'm bloody tired of trying to please everyone, to be everyone's shoulder and confidant, the one to make it better, okay, all right again. Stand on your own goddamned two feet, mine hurt.