Chapter 9
Journal Entry for Friday November 14, 1997
I feel particularly good today. Of course I just finished listening to The Chain on Fleetwood Mac's album The Dance. (The Chain is my favorite song that they sing).
I've been taking the ginger root Aunt Linda gave me. I just swallow it with water like you would a pill. It tastes awful (at least I think so), but it seems to be helping my headaches, so I keep taking it.
Brad seems to be getting worse though. He's going through the withdrawal stage. I mean, last night, in the middle of the night, Brad came down to my room and asked me to go with him to buy marijuana. I just told him hell fucking no. It pissed him off, but I even threatened to tell mom what he was doing if he tried to leave.
Mark hasn't listened to mom, and is even now openly smoking. He even tried to blackmail mom into buying cigarettes for him. He said if she doesn't buy him any, he'll just steal them. She just told him fine, she hopes he gets busted in the process.
I feel sorry for the poor woman. Her whole life is spiraling out of control. It's hard to believe just a mere two and a half months ago, she was a typical 40 year old woman. I can sympathize with her on her life spiraling out of control. Now most of her hair is gray. She's even had to start looking for work. (We've been living off of my dad's savings and a monthly check from Binford for the past two months). We are lucky though, Binford insisted on paying for the funeral for my dad.
This may be nothing, but last night I was coming upstairs to get a glass of iced tea, and I heard her laughing with someone on the phone. She heard me coming, and I could hear her whisper into the phone "Bye sweetie, I'll talk to you later". Surely she isn't seeing someone. I mean, my God, it's only been two months since my father's death. I think that's kind of slutty, and disrespectful to my dad, but what do I know?
It just dawned on me. This is going to be the first time ever my dad won't be carving the Taylor family turkey on Thanksgiving. That's going to be hard to watch. (Harder than normal that is, but I won't start in on my anti-meat rant).
I don't think we even have anything to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. Oh, sure, our lives, yeah. We should be thankful for our miserable, pathetic lives.
And I found out a couple of days ago that my dad's murder trial has been moved up to this next Monday. I suppose I should be glad. I just want to get the fucking thing over with.
Shit. Here we go again. I would swear I just saw a ghost or something out of the corner of my eye. This is driving me crazy.
Aunt Linda called yesterday, and offered to move in with us to help out my mom with housework, cooking (Yes!), et cetera. My mom told her she'd have to think it over. That's the last thing I need. I love animals, but I swear to God, if that cat of her's starts to play our piano, I will strangle the little son of a bitch.
Oh fuck! Fuck! I feel like I just got hit in the head with a fucking brick. And it isn't because of the Jimi Hendrix CD I'm listening to.
I guess I'll go take my first amitriptyline. Goddamn Linda, I thought you said the fucking ginger root would make my head feel better.
-Randy
A/N: It doesn't seem like much happened in this chapter right now, but in a few chapters you'll understand the significance of this one. Please R&R, and again, if you have ideas, go ahead and share them with me. (Not that I'm as desperate as I was though).
-Yours truly Randy Taylor.