Weekly Log - 26 through 1

Monday Jan 26

Here's the Oh Murphy, which is the first official prayer for the Most Serene Church. Recite it every Unholy Monday as soon as the first bullshit arises.

"Oh Murphy who art wherever the fuck You art. A curse upon Thy neck. Thy bad luck spread, bring forth Thy mad, I'm not afraid because I've lost my mind already. Give us today our daily problem, and forgive those who ignore You, for they don't know what they have coming. Surely You lead us not into solutions, but onto the ultimate boredom. Ramen."

Tuesday Jan 27

I'm late on my 1000 words writing quota. Weekly logs don't count and I have to make for it on blog articles and creative writing. I took up the writing quota some three years ago, and creative writing is a big part of it. Poetry used to help too, but every time I finish two lines and read them again, they sound so bad I end up tossing the whole thing away. I took up the quota because I don't wanna stop writing, and as things are, I've stopped a lot of habits I used to have and enjoyed. Like reading, hardly done any reading lately. There's a book I wanna finish, but something always seems to get in the way. The thing that irritates me the most is sitting down with a book to read, and being called over some shit I can't solve anyway, but that they bug me with all the same. And while I'm riding the train, I can read at will, but on the part of my way home done on foot, it's impossible. Incoming traffic and streets full of dog shit don't allow it. Whenever I start getting involved in the story at home, something tends to pull me away, be it Grandma calling, the phone, chores, errands to run, the works...

But back to the writing quota. It's 1000 words a day and the logs don't count. It tends to get delayed over week days, so I usually make up for it on weekends. Unless I manage to do 5000 words by the end of this week, I'm really freakin' late.

Wednesday Jan 28

Stayed home today. I'm tired like you wouldn't believe. Some mornings it's really not worth crawling out of bed to find Murphy grinning at you just outside the covers. Plus, I don't really sleep anymore. When I do, I have these crazy-ass dreams... just last night I dreamed I was working in baby abduction and re-sale. My job was to prepare the abducted children to be shipped to their new families. I stamped them on the left cheek with a red insignia marked "Quasar", put them inside baskets with a clean diaper, a red blanket and a pacifier, then placed them on a rolling mat into a big truck, where someone else was in charge of loading them. I wore a dark gray uniform and the whole place looked like a car assembly line, but I was the only one working there. I also remember having a clear notion I wasn't paid enough. I'm sure Freud would find something sexual about this, I frankly don't see it.

Thursday Jan 29

Home again. What's the point in even having this job? Pops sends me home 'cause there's nothing for me to do there! On the other hand, what's the point of staying home, given the way things are here? I searched around for a job among agencies with websites, with little result. Every time I call my own agency they tell me they're booked.

You know what I wish I could do? Find me a job that paid at least a clear 5 grand. It's not much, I know, but it'd hold things here a little, and maybe I could set a little something aside, even if not much, to find a way outta dodge.

Friday Jan 30

Can you guess? Yeah. Home. Didn't even go today. Mum keeps hollering she needs money, but she won't ask. She wants me to do it, so Pops can do his usual speech to me instead of her. It's like the divorce all over again, alright.

Lately, I'm getting a feeling that I want to yell back. Wouldn't that be a pretty sight, the both of us screaming at each other from the top of our lungs? I really want to start snapping answers back at her, really. That maybe if she hadn't messed up making credits, we wouldn't be in this situation, and that things at home are only escalating because she's scared to tell her own father to go fuck himself if he doesn't help. I never yelled at my Mother over anything.

Thank crow for Friday. I went out and had coffee with the guys. Well, not coffee, because Starbucks (yeah, they opened one in the local mall, and while I hate malls, I figured it worth a try) didn't sell me coffee. They sold me a toffee bar in liquid state: coffee, caramel, milk and vanilla. In a huge fuckin' mug. I spent a good while there, but ultimately, had to return home: I'm in charge of Grandma in the morning.

Weekend Jan 31-Feb 01

Someone please get me out of here. I think everyone is cracking up, and I'm at the head of the bull. Mum either yells, sobs or grunts whenever I talk to her. She keeps saying her depression is coming back and that's she's falling apart, which loosely translated means shit is heading for the fan. Why the fuck does she say this to me? Why not to the rest of this group of blood-related wankers that supposedly are my family? On Saturday Mum did quite a bit of yelling at me because I didn't pick up the laundry (it was raining when I got up anyway, so I didn't bother) and didn't go out to buy bread (didn't have any cash). Drank heavily on Sunday and pretended I wasn't home, so that went away well.