Disclaimer: Nope, not mine, none of it. If Billy were mine, no Aquitar for him.
A/N: Thanks to Rach for betaing.
Diary of the Dumpster
It is possible that upon reflection I may decide to remove this page from my journalistic efforts, since it seems unlikely at best that what I plan to record today will contain any interest or salient information for future perusers of said endeavor. However, as Kimberly has pointed out time and again, the objective of this chronicle is to assist me in clarifying and classifying my adolescent emotions so that I may achieve a higher understanding of my id.
In any event, the primary emotion I am experiencing at the moment is outrage. The reasons are several, and I shall elucidate, thusly:
1) I have never before in my recollection been disciplined by my father in such a plebeian manner. Grounded, indeed. At no time has he instituted any sort of dictum dealing with the occurrence of parties in his absence. Rather, I believe he welcomed the notion that I would be surrounded by close friends during his frequent absences. However, due to extraordinary circumstances, which constitutes the bulk of my second source of ire, he has reversed himself on this heretofore unspoken policy, so that now I am restricted from any and all social dealings for a week.
2) The circumstances to which I refer are my father's untimely discovery of a rather delicate nature in the garden, namely and to wit: feminine lingerie, of the sort which covers the more nether regions. Yellow silk. I am, obviously, in no doubt whatsoever as to the owner of this capricious garment, and it is equally obvious to me how they got there. He might have believed my hastily invented anecdote regarding a poorly sealed garbage collection truck had not a further garment, this time having to do with the feminine torso, appeared waving from the top of one of his prize sunflowers. Pink, this time. The result is, I am accused of having staged a sort of orgiastic soiree in his absence. Hence the punishment as meted out.
3) It is possible, again on reflection, that this last is in fact the greater wellspring of my resentment, which is simply put: it wasn't me.