If I hear my Dad scream "Phyllis, I'm gonna shave my
nuts!" one more time, I'm going to leave this home, this town, this state.
We spend another evening with the TV blaring another pre-code black and white film from the early 30s recorded on VHS in SLP-mode. The toilet is broken so the family and visitors do their business on the floor. The kids clamber inside from the snow without taking off their boots, tracking waste and snow through the house.
I can't live like this. No one likes me, I can't get my feta cheese business off the ground, I've lost all feeling in my extremities. I think it's these filth-ridden conditions. I lay awake at night imagining the Kool-Aid man bursting through the wall, lashing us together, and reading us his book of automatic poetry until our flesh becomes necrotic.
We spend another evening with the TV blaring another pre-code black and white film from the early 30s recorded on VHS in SLP-mode. The toilet is broken so the family and visitors do their business on the floor. The kids clamber inside from the snow without taking off their boots, tracking waste and snow through the house.
I can't live like this. No one likes me, I can't get my feta cheese business off the ground, I've lost all feeling in my extremities. I think it's these filth-ridden conditions. I lay awake at night imagining the Kool-Aid man bursting through the wall, lashing us together, and reading us his book of automatic poetry until our flesh becomes necrotic.
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