Crowbar In Hand

I read it again a second time. The bed creaked upstairs -- his habitual consumption of alcohol -- and my eyes skimmed in disbelief at the bile that his drunken hand had flung all over the pages. I don't and can't understand how a person can consistently blame other people, events, circumstances for the things in their life that are broken. No one's luck is that bad and I have only given you everything that I have to give, twice. My capacity for violence at times frightens me.

I just kept thinking that he doesn't even know how to spell. After the anger, of course. I just kept thinking, what a fucking worthless brain.

Your worst nightmare. And up I go, on final rites.