Dear diary,
I hope father chokes on a pretzel.
specifically the one he's munching at right now.
Already, his hairy beer belly's started to reveal itself. Not a pretty sight. He tries to hide it, but I see through his anger, his hair greys more every time I come home, which isn't often.
If I had a pretty penny for every time I was home, I'd be broke. Pockets in a drought.
The football speaker's dull voice rumbles the bass of the TV. Empty beer bottles are the broken hearted, revolting, scumbag of my dad in a nutshell. Simple as that. Pretty one-dimensional to me.
I'm not mad at mama for leaving. In fact, I envy her. She saw her chance, and she stole it, along with a part of me. Not a moments hesitation.
If I could go back...
But I can't and —
"The hell you doing," dad burps at me.
I looked up from my diary and scowled, "more than you've ever done."
Wow, I'm a bitch, he's been throwing insults more than when he gets up out of his chair. I'm surprised, he wasn't permanently stuck, physically, of course.
"Are you stupid?" He scowled back.
"Possibly," I push my luck by giving a mock smirk.
He doesn't do anything, I frown. Not because he didn't snap back but because he's learned to block me out.
I'm not longer a burden. I'm longer here.
I'm dead to him. And he's dead to me.
Like father, like daughter...
