Chapter 23
Journal Entry for Tuesday January 6, 1998
Yeah, yeah, yeah, sorry I missed writing in this damn thing on New Year's Eve and New Year's and all that happy horse shit.
I'm not in much of a good mood, in case you can't tell. (I've got to stop talking to imaginary readers. If I don't, then I'll really need to talk to my damn psychiatrist about something).
Anyways, apparently the Detroit PD decided they had to exhume my dad's body to do some sort of test or something. Mom hasn't told me what it's for, and I try not to push the matter of dad's death any more than is absolutely necessary.
Brad, Mark, and I were given the option of being there or not when they did the exhumation. I was the only one who decided to go.
Everything was going fine, until something malfunctioned with the machine that they was using to dig up the earth accidentally hit the coffin. The worst part was, I could see my dad's body just lying there. Luckily, the coroner's office has offered to pay to get an even better coffin due to the screw up. Even so, I'm still extremely pissed about that happening.
But, of course, I'm against exhumations and that type of stuff anyways. I think it's disrespectful to the dead, as well as to the family of the deceased.
As far as I know, mom doesn't this yet, but I caught Mark smoking pot the other day. Apparently he, Brad, and Brad's pusher have decided to form a cartel. How quaint and lovely. Obviously Brad is back smoking again. When will those two learn that smoking kills? Yes, I was smoking the same stuff, but I quit after I got out of the hospital the last time. (What can I say; I have a lot of willpower).
Nobody knows this, but Brad was actually high when he got into his wreck a year or so ago right after he got his license. He just kind of let that little tidbit slip one time in normal conversation. (Or as normal of a conversation as me and him can possibly have anymore). I'm saving that information for a time when I really piss mom off. Then she'll want to know more, then she'll forget about what ever I did, and focus on Brad's screw ups. Well, sure, I might add in a few juicy details, just to make the story a bit more condemning for Brad and interesting for me.
What else has happened?
Well, Aunt Carrie stopped by for New Year's Day. As always, she had interesting (and by interesting I mean odd and weird and tacky and practically useless and whatever other adjectives you care to throw into the mix) gifts for everyone.
She gave Brad, Mark, and me some kind of South African chocolate that's supposed to be an aphrodisiac. (She obviously didn't tell this to mom).
Mom was considerably less lucky on the sex front, receiving a signed poster of Nelson Mandela. (That would be the antonym of aphrodisiac, I believe. Of course, maybe not if you're Mrs. Nelson Mandela). Don't get me wrong, I think he's a great man, and a great leader, but not a looker. (Hey! I don't go in for that kind of thing. Not that there's anything wrong with that!).
Don't ask me why the woman is giving teenagers aphrodisiacal chocolate. I thought everyone was trying to fight against teen pregnancy and all that stuff, but apparently I was wrong.
Damn, I guess I need to finish up so I can go see my damn psychiatrist and give him another hour of my life that I'll never get back. Maybe I should ask him how much longer I'll have to see him.
Pfft, who am I kidding? Like I'll get a straight answer from a member of the greedy, death oriented son of a bitches who make up the medical establishment. Oddly enough, I say that, but love to watch the TV drama ER. Go figure.
But, at least I have a little more control over my life than I did. Actually, I'm in contotal control.
-Randy
A/N: So, Tim really is dead, all of you naysayers. (Sorry, nothing personal, but a writer has to do what a writer has to do).
By the way, aphrodisiacal is a real word. I was in doubt myself, but looked it up on my word processor's dictionary, and double checked in my huge Encarta dictionary. (Encarta is one of, if not the best dictionary to have). Honestly though, that word scared me. I was afraid I'd have to make up a word.
Contotal, on the other hand, is not. It's a word that one of my mom's friends uses. Funny how it sounds like a real word, isn't it? You could even say it's almost creepy.
Anyways, please R&R, I appreciate seeing how much people appreciate reading my stories. Even the parts where they appreciate me appreciating their reading my stories which they appreciate, which includes them reading the part where I appreciate them reading the part where I appreciate them appreciating reading the parts where I appreciate them reading my stories which includes…
Okay, maybe I got a little carried away there.
Thank you for reading, and thank you for not just stopping on the paragraph with all the appreciating going on. You could say that I appreciate it. (Notice I said you could, not that I would).
-Yours truly, Randy "appreciate appreciate appreciate appreciate" Taylor
