I was at my parents' house this evening. I watched my father get into an argument with one of my sisters over the stupidest thing in the world. It got really heated and lasted for a few minutes. It ended with my father storming downstairs. I know he wasn't really pissed about the yarn sitting on the dining room table. He's pissed because he's just lost his 58-year-old son.
It's a strange place. An angry place. A sad and lonely place.
Saint Marty is in some stage of grief. Maybe the keep-your-hands-off-my-fucking-chocolate stage.
|I'm in here somewhere|