Diary
Page Two
It’s officially one week until Roxy’s 5th birthday. It’s a shame that I remember, but she doesn’t. I can’t throw her a party, nor get her a cake, and that new baby doll that hit Wal-Mart a few days ago is out of the question. I’m paying my father’s rent, since we are living with him. Like everyday, the bus drove by our old home. A nice little couple live in it, I think the woman is pregnant, I wonder if her husband will leave her like you left me. But I hope for the best.
Your mom called this morning to see how I am, and if I’m writing. The answer is, yes and no: I’m writing, but it’s not fun. I’m writing to spite you, in hope you do find this stupid little diary, and see how fucked up you left me. I hope our children don’t find this, and if they do, I’m sorry you’re reading this Roxy, and future Way offspring #2. Your mother is bitter, because she’s 28, living with her near-dead father, and works at a greasy diner. Your mother comes home at 9 pm, smelling of greasy burgers and burnt fries, the bottoms of my vans are sticky, like I’ve been cleaning a movie theater, and all I want to do is take a hot bath. I want to enjoy myself, but I won’t, because I can’t. I’m not as selfish as your father.
Anyway, back to you Gerard Arthur Way; I hope one day you do read this, hoping you feel bad, hoping you feel like the scum of the Earth. I hope your paintings and your little mistress are bringing you all the happiness in the world. Remember, you were the one who said Fuck The World. That’s exactly what I’m doing; fucking the world except I have loved ones to care for. It could be any day that my father passes, but I’ doing everything but waiting. Any day your daughter will stop looking out the window, one day I’ll stop being so bitter.
Today, I had to bring Roxy into work with me. Dad had to go into the hospital for a brain scan, but I’m a total ditz when it comes to things of that nature. Anyway, I scrounged up the $2.50 for the bus ride, dropped him off, and took Roxy with me. She’s pretty quiet and well behaved at the diner, I’m proud of her. While we were there, a song came over the radio, a song I hadn’t heard since Roxy’s birth. It was Roxanne by the Police. The song brought back good memories, some bad, and the fact I was singing along.
Remember, you were the one who decided this was ‘our’ song, after I let you feel me up in your old Honda. After Frank Iero’s massive graduation party. After you had 12 beers, and we had to sit outside your house in your car. Your mom wasn’t expecting you back until the next morning. My dad had gone loony by then, and there was nothing that could be done. You and I sat in your black, beat up Honda, smoking cigarettes, listening to an old rock station.
“This is what we’ll name our first child,” you had slurred. Remember?
“Who says I’m mating with you, Way?” I had snapped back.
“You’ll marry me. You know it,” you were determined.
Like an idiot, I didn’t put my guard up then, like I should have. Just for the record, I was in love with you, you dumb-ass. Then Cherry Bomb came on, and you put your hand on my knee. We had only known each other for 3 weeks, I’ve gotten further with the Iero kid. Did he ever tell you? I gave him a hand job in gym the day I met you. He isn’t a bad kisser either.
Your mom called this morning to see how I am, and if I’m writing. The answer is, yes and no: I’m writing, but it’s not fun. I’m writing to spite you, in hope you do find this stupid little diary, and see how fucked up you left me. I hope our children don’t find this, and if they do, I’m sorry you’re reading this Roxy, and future Way offspring #2. Your mother is bitter, because she’s 28, living with her near-dead father, and works at a greasy diner. Your mother comes home at 9 pm, smelling of greasy burgers and burnt fries, the bottoms of my vans are sticky, like I’ve been cleaning a movie theater, and all I want to do is take a hot bath. I want to enjoy myself, but I won’t, because I can’t. I’m not as selfish as your father.
Anyway, back to you Gerard Arthur Way; I hope one day you do read this, hoping you feel bad, hoping you feel like the scum of the Earth. I hope your paintings and your little mistress are bringing you all the happiness in the world. Remember, you were the one who said Fuck The World. That’s exactly what I’m doing; fucking the world except I have loved ones to care for. It could be any day that my father passes, but I’ doing everything but waiting. Any day your daughter will stop looking out the window, one day I’ll stop being so bitter.
Today, I had to bring Roxy into work with me. Dad had to go into the hospital for a brain scan, but I’m a total ditz when it comes to things of that nature. Anyway, I scrounged up the $2.50 for the bus ride, dropped him off, and took Roxy with me. She’s pretty quiet and well behaved at the diner, I’m proud of her. While we were there, a song came over the radio, a song I hadn’t heard since Roxy’s birth. It was Roxanne by the Police. The song brought back good memories, some bad, and the fact I was singing along.
Remember, you were the one who decided this was ‘our’ song, after I let you feel me up in your old Honda. After Frank Iero’s massive graduation party. After you had 12 beers, and we had to sit outside your house in your car. Your mom wasn’t expecting you back until the next morning. My dad had gone loony by then, and there was nothing that could be done. You and I sat in your black, beat up Honda, smoking cigarettes, listening to an old rock station.
“This is what we’ll name our first child,” you had slurred. Remember?
“Who says I’m mating with you, Way?” I had snapped back.
“You’ll marry me. You know it,” you were determined.
Like an idiot, I didn’t put my guard up then, like I should have. Just for the record, I was in love with you, you dumb-ass. Then Cherry Bomb came on, and you put your hand on my knee. We had only known each other for 3 weeks, I’ve gotten further with the Iero kid. Did he ever tell you? I gave him a hand job in gym the day I met you. He isn’t a bad kisser either.
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I'm rereading all this, and man, I was a mean writer!