I am not a happy fucking camper. I wanted to go to sleep. I really did. I blew off a kitchen that was less than clean, I relaxed on my ass in front of financials message boards and futures quotes. I had a few beers. I put in my orders. I screwed around some more on the 'net. Then I took sleeping pills. Then I drank NyQuil. I'm still not sleeping and I'm getting more than a little pissed off. I have been fine for the past couple of days. So I didn't drink beer before bed. I had a nightmare Thursday morning. My husband and parents were in it.

My husband was driving me around and we went to four different movie theaters that belonged to the same business chain. At every theater, I wasn't allowed in to watch a movie. There was a snooty man there (he reminded me of the waiter from Ferris Bueller's Day Off) and he wouldn't let me past the lobby and he sent me away with a box of used clothing each time. He said the clothes were from my parents and I was supposed to take them home with me. Each time, I asked my husband to drive me to the next theater only for the same thing to happen. I wasn't there to watch a movie, I was there to pick up boxes of used clothing. Because my parents insisted. There were no more theaters, so I went home. Only I lived with my parents and they were pretending to be nice to me. I almost believed them, so I opened the boxes of clothes since they were acting like this was some great gift they were giving me. The clothes were tacky and old and musty. I didn't like them and there were little bugs and spiders in them, too. My parents pretended the clothes were nice and I was supposed to like them. I hate those two.

This probably has something to do with my mother stopping by here to bring Easter baskets to my children last Saturday. Or it might have something to do with the pains I felt in my body after seeing my mother, or the bout of hypochondria that threatened afterward. Or maybe it has to do with my youngest daughter's birthday party next Saturday. She told me she wants my sister's kids to come. And of course, my mother asked her what she wanted for her birthday when she came over here to fuck up my head. I cannot escape these people without being cruel in some way. It doesn't seem that I can. Or maybe I could play my mother's game and buy my way out. Maybe my daughter would forget her birthday if I gave her a big enough present, but I'm not my mother. I can't win, you see. I have to either leave town, or pretend. And I can't tell you how much that makes me hate my parents. My mother had better fucking be glad I'm not really crazy like she needed me to be. If I were, I'd serve up her innards off the barbecue for the birthday party. You can't find that in Gramma's cookbook. Or can you? Fucking lunatics. I despise the whole lot of them.