A/N - In case your a complete plonker and didn't realise, this is an original story, with original places and is not even set in Bristol. Don't like it? Don't read it, Don't care. Just deals with the same issues and shat. Enjoy.
Dear Stupid Journal,
Okay so the Jerk-off I'm forced to call Stan insists we write in this stupid journal everyday. Yeah, Stan's an effing genius. He says he's not going to read the journals so how does he know we're actually writing? Well if it gets me out of the hell hole faster I'll write the stupid thing.
Why would someone like me, someone with such a SPARKLING PERSONALITY need therapy? Well there's a lot of things but they all lead up to the-incident-that-shalt-not-be-named. You even mention something resembling it in the least mum has to lock herself in her room with Chicken Soup for the Mother's soul and a fifth of Vodka. Hey, a woman needs her medicine. I'm not gonna judge her. Then that stupid Chicken Soup book put the idea in her head that I needed special help. I honestly don't think Veronica Jordon has ever moved so fast in her life, she jetted past my brother, Danny, and I, ripped the phone off the hook (yes we still have a wall phone) and called information.
I bet that Lady quit after the conversation with my mother.
I'm not saying anything against my mother, quite the contrary, I love her... most of the time... okay at least half... of half. But she gets these ideas in her head and has to do it then and there or else she paces, sweats wrings her hands, until either she breaks her finger or just does it. The conversation went a little like this,
Mum: Hello I'd like the number for a therapist.
Operator: What's the name?
Mum: I don't know, that's what you're supposed to tell me
Operator: Maim, I can't give you the number unless I have a name.
Mum: I don't know any therapists, if I did I could pull out the phone book and find the g-damn number myself!
Operator: Maim foul language is uncalled for, simply find a therpist and their name and I can give you their number.
Mum: I need the number of a teen therapist (This is the point where I actually started listening fully)
Operator: Maim I still can't help you.
Mum: Goddamn it! why do they even bother hiring operators? Pull your head out of your ass before I come down there and give it a foot for company!
That's when she hung up and went to find the phone book, which was holding Danny's bedroom Door closed. If that gives you a clue to the haven we live in.
After ten minutes of cussing and tossing papers around the house I had finised my frosty fruits and figured I'd tell her where the phonebok had hidden.
That was my first mistake.
When she finally found the yellow pages she nearly ripped it in half looking for the T section. Danny drove me to school, leaving mum alone with the phonebook, the phone and the alcohol.
That was my second mistake.
When I got home that night Mum announced I'd be hauling my happy ass to group therapy on Thursday and come hell or high water the-incident-that-shalt-not-be-named would never happen again.
Like I'd try that twice.
Pt. 2 Preview:
Holy hell this wasn't group therapy, this was somesort of sick twisted punishment.
This is what happens when you steal a cookie from your Nursey school teacher's lunch.
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