December 25, 1989
I've gotten some crappy Christmas presents from Shawn before.
Ugly socks.
Ties even a clown wouldn't wear.
A toy police badge (why would I need that? I have a real one.)
Useless crap made out of Play-Doh.
Scribbling on paper I'm supposed to call "art".
Actually...compared to those, this journal isn't so bad.
At least it's practical.
Sort of.
Not that I'll ever use it. The only reason I'm writing in it now is because he's staring at me like he'll cry if I don't.
I wouldn't put it past him. He'd do it just to piss me off.
January 1, 1990
Apparently, I need a New Year's resolution.
I don't know why. I've never had one before, and I've somehow managed to survive.
It's some stupid assignment Shawn brought home from school. It's supposed to "improve family communication" or be a "bonding experience" or some such crap.
It has been educational.
I've already learned that, apparently, my taxes are going to pay the salary of some touchy-feely moron whose only qualification for becoming a teacher was a desire to get out of going to Vietnam.
According to Mel, however, making sarcastic observations about my son's teacher (no matter how true) isn't a resolution.
I don't see why not. I'm resolved to do it.
Regularly.
I've also resolved to see if this imbecile has any unpaid parking tickets.
God, I hope he does.
Anyway, since neither of those technically count for Shawn's class assignment (even though they should), I have to write in this stupid thing everything day now. That's my "official" resolution.
Not my idea.
And I'm still sticking with my original choice.
Mr. Steven K. Cartwright is about to wish he never screwed with me.