Keptquisling’s Weblog

It’s been awhile since I’ve talked with my dad alone. We went to laguna, we had to take care of a few things there. We got around to talking about my future, or what’s left of it, and what he wanted for us when we were growing up. We’re a nice group of kids my brothers and sister, every one of us, even then dumbest idiot that I can have for a brother has had some distinction at one time or another.

And the wedding, which reminded me that I’, the only one left who’s single. Not that that’s a problem, it just makes me the focus of my parent’s attention. I’ve been really busy these past few years, and now that I’ve got free time I find myself talking in my head about hopes and wishes and little things that I didn’t do. Unlike most people who would wish they were richer or smarter, I’d never trade in who I am to be someone else. I’m proud of who I am, just not about the things I’ve done.

You can’t be proud of mistakes after all…

I really hate my goddamn uncle. Now that his little empire’s crumbling and he can’t stay in overseas 5 star hotels he remembers that he has relatives. I can’t remember a single gift from him when he was well off. And I was a particularly destitute little child, playing with card board boxes because I couldn’t afford real toys.

I’ve always been involved with my parents businesses. Always there to help, hauling raw materials to stitch into shoes at our little factories back before the rubber shoe crash. I remember a few times in particular where I worked myself sick, and spewed out globules of my lunch accross the highway pavement. I wonder if that has anthing to do with my wide shoulders?

I’ve been trying to get in touch with a few of the women I had extra-curicular activities with back in the day, some were particularly responsive. I’m honestly comtemplating infidelity, given all the problems I can’t talk about. Much as to say that I’m currently living in some kind of unspeakable hell that I can’t escape from as penalty for that credit card I swiped when I was in highschool.

My father said he wished at least one of us had a gun collection or something. That he had any sort of interest in guns surprised me, I didn’t know anything about that. But then again, I don’t live with them, I’ve never lived with my parents. I’m like a cat, who’s just there. I didn’t need to be taken cared of.

I want to talk about my problems, but I can’t. I want to shout out loud but I can’t. Someone will hear me, but that’s the point of shouting isn’t it? so someone will come and help? But I’m beyond help, shouting is pointless, my problem is my own, and though I can’t deal with it, I can’t share it with anyone either. It’s my very own confined personal little hell.