Cleveland was long, low, dirty and flat. The girls, black ruffled Bowie hair, black tights, rockabilly heels, same long striped shirt, same furry lashes and make-up, same, same, same. Interchangables. They stalked me from room to room until I finally exploded.
Home is fine. People always shifting around. I can't see George, with his whiny voice and constant input, lasting very much longer. He will run out of money and interest, and move on to another household. Hopefully his mother's. I'm tired of cleaning up after him. Jen is staying or leaving. She'll know by tomorrow. So we'll know by tomorrow.
Sobbing over internal grief is so exhausting. But the Travesty of Memorial Day can be explored another time.
cleaning my room
