twenty-five december
twelve : thirty-one p.m.

i'm irritable. and he's just the person to take it out on. and i should feel bad about it. and i don't.

this is supposed to be the best time of year, right? i'm supposed to be happy because of all these presents, right?

it's not. i'm not.

i don't want to get in the car and visit the relatives. i don't want them looking at me, criticizing me. i don't want to sit around in their big, open, expensive, uncomfortable museum-house.

i only want to curl up in the chair in his basement and fall asleep.