You just might need dynamite.

Been busy lately. Avoiding full sentences. Avoiding lots of stuff. But no longer.

I'm here. Present. Reporting for duty. Punching in. Whatever.

Every weekend has brought another party or three, which is loverly but sometimes one wants to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea, unpause the DVD player and continue watching a Judy Garland movie. Lame? Perhaps, but it's me, it's what I do, and I miss it. I haven't been reading much lately, either, which sucks because I had so many big plans. I still have an unopened copy of Sylvia Plath's journals sitting beside my bed (bigger than a bible and something I'm far more likely to worship). And I never write anymore. Not poems, not autobiographical snippets, not short stories, nothing. This isn't exactly a ginormous loss to the world, I know, but it did wonders for my sanity. Online visits are fewer and fewer for me. I miss anyone I don't have a tutorial with or sit with at lunchtimes. Cooking doesn't seem to be happening; I ate a meal out of a packet the other day (*shudder* ...although it was quite alright as far as Indian food goes).

I'm being more who people want me to be; my family are stunned but ecstatic when I come home from a night out partying and drinking, friends are amused and intrigued by my newfound social life, I have more in common with people I meet. And yet... I don't feel like me. And in weird ways it shows. I don't go out at night; I have nothing to wear to clubs and parties. I don't go out to eat; I sit and drink tea or water and then grab a burger on the way home. I start talking excitedly with people about University and TV shows when I should be ordering a drink.

And I miss my place on the couch, and my mug, and my movie. And yet I don't return to them. Someone once called me an enigma. I wonder, were Winston Churchill to observe me, what he would say.

Like tryin' to tell a stranger 'bout rock'n'roll.

The order in which I do emotions:

1) Experience them.
2) Write about them online.
3) Deal with them.

A very set order these days, it seems.



I would use neutral language and all that except it seems everyone everywhere knows about my life so what are a few online readers?

So let's start at the very beginning. My Dad's been doing property settlements for over thirty years. He's like the Yoda of a very small industry where everyone knows each other. Seriously, it's a very backward and inbred community. I say this with love because I work in the industry too, as of a few months ago, and I'm actually quite fond of it and my job.

The one problem with such an incestuous community, though, is that everyone knows everyone else's business. All the time. My Dad and I didn't go into work due to H1N1 related issues for a week and everyone knew about it despite there being a very boring, non-descript party line about us just taking the week off.

So now you have three clues. I work with him. It's a small industry. And everyone knows everyone's business.

So the next piece of the puzzle is that my Dad likes to drink. To an embarrassing degree. Like, long winded stories and falling over and needing people to help him home and smelling like those aliens from the Simpsons hosed him down with alcohol so no one would believe he was abducted.

People at work like to make jokes to me about said drinking. And about the way my mother guilt trips my Dad about it. And about how he'd rather hit the pub to drink alone for an hour or two than come home with me at night.

Occupational hazard, I guess.

Tonight my father came home drunk again. For the first time this week, granted, but it is only Monday. My mother lost it at him considering she'd only just gotten off work (he finishes at least an hour earlier than she does) and she'd walked the dog, tidied the house and cooked them both dinner. My father, the eloquent speaker he is when he's intoxicated, started repeating the "F" word over and over again as loud as he could, threw his work bag to the side and stormed out of the house, slamming the door and calling "Goodnight" as he left. I presume he went back to the pub, probably to tell his workmates all about it. Or, at least, to infer it with his very subtle body language. I don't know if or when he's coming home this time.

I'm horrified, naturally. But the worst part of all this? Definitely that I'll have to go into work on Friday and there will be more jokes. Or worse, concerned whispers. I was hoping the thing they'd all be talking about is that I'm finally 18 this weekend. But hey, I've figured out that you don't get to choose why you're this week's gossip.