|Madness has it's place...|
|Tonight my father slammed me into a wall because of a can of soup. He was so incredibly pissed off that he did everything but foam at the mouth.. all over a can of soup.
There is something to be said about the mental state of a human being when a can of soup can cause them to be physically violent. Personally, I think such individuals should be put down like the mad dogs that they are, but hey.. I'm speaking from the cold, ruthless, uncaring place that's burrowed it's place into my soul. Oh... how Goth... *swoon*
I'm sitting at my sister's apartment right now, typing on her piece of shit compaq computer... I'm venting. I think this is a good thing, only a short while ago I was so shell shocked I was shivering too hard to even stand. Right now I could be doing worse things then typing a meaningless rant on Vector... I could be cleaning up blood and changing the barrel on the shotgun. Or I could be calling the police.. who would do nothing but scratch their asses and say "gee... which way was I supposed to hold this gun agian?"
All of this over a can of soup... I don't think that's a concept I can truly grasp... it's so pathetic, so insane, so... so... pointless. I'm not sure who's being more unreasonable, my father for shoving me into a wall, or myself because I'm ready to disown him in every way I can.
Well, it *was* Cambell's Chunky Soup...
While my father was running around my living room screaming and raging at my mother about soup, and guns, and police, and self-destructive tendancies.. I sat on my bed with the door open and listened. I listened to his ranting psycho-babble. I listened to my Mom's almost religious pleads for him to calm down. I watched my dog Jake wander around the house scared out of his poor doggy brains. I felt my entire body flinch and shake... I found myself emotionally removed from the situation, the entire situation was so absurd.. so childish that it was the perfect gateway to the darker problems. Like someone came up and ripped a flesh colored band-aid off a 3 inch deep flesh wound.
Finally, right as my father and I are about to get in a fist fight. My sister and Binky walk through the door. Dad walks down the hallway with the shotgun in hand. Half of me was tempted to pray for him to stick it in his mouth and pull the trigger. I didn't, though. Instead, I told my sister she wasn't leaving without me and she drove me over here. I'm staying the night on her couch.
I must say, I really am looking forward to tommorow morning when I get to tell my father to go fuck himself. Hell, I'm half hoping he loses it and puts me in the hosital. Either he'll die in a police shoot out, or spend a couple years in prison.
I can only hope.
Heh, people have been telling me my whole life that I'm one of the most compassionate, caring and gentle people they know. I guess, in some weird way that depth of emotion gives me the ability to be cruel to the point of torture, and uncaring to the point of neglect...
Well Dad, I truly hope that soup was worth it.