Chapter 13
Monday dawns bright and early. I think. I've never known exactly what that means—if you think about it, it's sort of redundant. At any rate, it's (a) a snappy start to a thought, and (b) a not-so-commonly-used-expression, so score one for me. At any rate, Monday's dawning and I am yawning.
I complete my pre-school morning routine (not to be confused with preschool, but you can never be too sure. I don't think my brain works as well this early in the morning, which incidentally is something that I CANNOT STAND when people say. Okay, so your "brain doesn't work well in the morning"? Get over it! I'll have you know your brain works fine: it's the reason you woke up this morning! Had your brain not been working, you would have stopped breathing and DIED. What you mean is that your brain is fine, you are simply a moron. Or…nope, can't say it in French. I'm taking Spanish.).
Okay. WOW. It's been a long time since I've completely blown past my ENTIRE POINT to make asinine comments. I haven't done that since I had a sip of beer at the 55's annual holiday party last year. I mean, what? No, no, officer, I wasn't drinking. Ironic, though, because I was surrounded by them. Officers, that is.
Anyway, my point from…some time ago…is (now was) that it takes a lot for me to just go completely off the handle. And I think we can characterize "a lot" as this whole Holly-baby-moving bombshell, no?
Once I'm dressed, face brushed and teeth washed (or something), I grab my various scholarly items (cough, backpack, cough. But it doesn't sound as professional) and dash out the door.
Okay, okay. Don't judge me. And don't give me the whole "You-shouldn't-ever-leave-without-saying-goodbye-to-your-parents-what-if-they-become-seriously-maimed-at-some-point-in-the-day-today-and-the-next-time-you-see-them-they-are-both-horribly-disfigured" song and dance either. The truth is that we're all still sort of walking on eggshells around each other, especially since my little jaunt yesterday. Basically, I need space. I need to forget about the soon-to-be Baby Nieto. And I need to get up. Literally, because I just tripped getting into the elevator.
Miraculously, I manage to get onto the subway and get myself to school without further incident. In fact, I'm proud to say that by the time I'm walking up the front steps, I can actually pass for pulled-together and confident, given what I've endured over the past two days—all on the outside, of course. Because on the inside, I'm still a wreck—just ask my parole officer. Okay, wait. That made no sense. Not even one, small, infinitesimal iota of sense. See what I mean about that inside-wreckfullness? Maybe not, because "wreckfullness" isn't even a word.