Diary
Page Seven
Your mother screamed at me today. I laughed.
I pawned my wedding ring, apparently it was your grandmother’s. It wasn’t mine, it was yours until you died, then it would go to Roxy.
I got $145 for it, I went into Ralph’s a bought some groceries, mainly stuff to cook that’ll last as leftovers. After that, I bought my dad and Roxy ice cream cones and we walked home. Roxy spent most of the night, while I cooked, coloring in her old coloring book. She took so much pride in being able to relax and color. My dad sat beside her, watching her, giving her the colors she needed from the box.
It’s funny how something, so materialized, could turn two unhappy people back to who they once were. Too bad this wouldn’t last. I have to pay the electric bill, and Dad’s bills are piling as well. Remembering all this put a damper on my day.
After cooking, I let it “relax” and sat with them. My dad sat next to me, letting Roxy lie on the floor, on her stomach. I began piling up the bills in my head. Why must do this?
“I couldn’t imagine leaving that little girl,” Dad had noted as I added the bills up in my head, “she’s beautiful, Valleri.”
My dad’s pills must’ve been working, or the colors helped his fragile state. Whatever it was, I wished it could last forever. He even noted my growing bump and asked about it. But there's nothing to say. This ‘It’ doesn’t mean anything to us until it’s gone and unnoticeable.
I am a horrible person, but at least I admitted it.
How long does it take for one to admit they’re a bad person? Does it hit them like a truck? Or do they finally see the hurt and rude atmosphere they expel?
It’s something you really have to think about. Art school doesn’t teach you how to be a good person. Working at a shitty job humbles you. It’s all these different things, experiences, that help us determine what kind of person we want/should be.
I have a feeling, I’d know your counter argument. You’d say some bullshit about how would I know life experience, about how journalism doesn’t determine what kind of person I am, and what makes working at a diner so humbling. I know you, Way. I know you better than you know yourself, believe me.
I pawned my wedding ring, apparently it was your grandmother’s. It wasn’t mine, it was yours until you died, then it would go to Roxy.
I got $145 for it, I went into Ralph’s a bought some groceries, mainly stuff to cook that’ll last as leftovers. After that, I bought my dad and Roxy ice cream cones and we walked home. Roxy spent most of the night, while I cooked, coloring in her old coloring book. She took so much pride in being able to relax and color. My dad sat beside her, watching her, giving her the colors she needed from the box.
It’s funny how something, so materialized, could turn two unhappy people back to who they once were. Too bad this wouldn’t last. I have to pay the electric bill, and Dad’s bills are piling as well. Remembering all this put a damper on my day.
After cooking, I let it “relax” and sat with them. My dad sat next to me, letting Roxy lie on the floor, on her stomach. I began piling up the bills in my head. Why must do this?
“I couldn’t imagine leaving that little girl,” Dad had noted as I added the bills up in my head, “she’s beautiful, Valleri.”
My dad’s pills must’ve been working, or the colors helped his fragile state. Whatever it was, I wished it could last forever. He even noted my growing bump and asked about it. But there's nothing to say. This ‘It’ doesn’t mean anything to us until it’s gone and unnoticeable.
I am a horrible person, but at least I admitted it.
How long does it take for one to admit they’re a bad person? Does it hit them like a truck? Or do they finally see the hurt and rude atmosphere they expel?
It’s something you really have to think about. Art school doesn’t teach you how to be a good person. Working at a shitty job humbles you. It’s all these different things, experiences, that help us determine what kind of person we want/should be.
I have a feeling, I’d know your counter argument. You’d say some bullshit about how would I know life experience, about how journalism doesn’t determine what kind of person I am, and what makes working at a diner so humbling. I know you, Way. I know you better than you know yourself, believe me.