What a day.
I’m trying to think of reasons not to kill my driver ’cause the truck needs something else again.
Miss Carol comes home in a foul mood.
My little brother and his little cupcake stand in the driveway working out familial problems via iPhone conference call.
The music washes quietly over everything, gently trying to assuage, to push back the roiling dark blackness. The music tries. But the black seeps into the evening roiling up against us and Tug and Cutter sit staring and wondering.
Miss Carol shrieks and storms.
And I bite down on fuck you, because fuck you leads down roads irretrievable.
So I try- fuck this.
And it seems to maybe work.