Wow. I like you. A lot.
Summer needs to hurry the fuck up.
If I ever have a son, I would probably name him August, with reasons being:
STOP THREATENING TO HIT HER. IF YOU LAY ONE FINGER ON HER I WILL CALL THE COPS. I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR SHIT. THIS IS WHY SHE CRIES ALL THE TIME. YOU ARE JUST AN ALCOHOLIC-SORRY-EXCUSE-FOR-A-FATHER-SHITHEAD-OF-A-HUSBAND-CONDESCENDING BASTARD. YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT ANYONE BUT YOURSELF. WHICH YOU MADE CLEAR WHEN YOU TOLD MY SISTER THAT YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR OWN WIFE. PLEASE. MOVE OUT. YOU HAVE NO PLACE IN THIS FAMILY. YOU HAVE NO EXCUSE FOR ACTING THIS WAY. WORDS CANNOT DESCRIBE HOW MUCH I HATE YOU. I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO HATEFUL TO ANOTHER HUMAN BEING.
My dream is to move to France and invest the money I’ve earned (if any) for a small but classy apartment on top of a home-style coffee shop. That coffee shop would belong to me. I would have rolled up newspapers in baskets at the door with a daymaker attached at the tag. I would have a crazy golden cappuccino machine that I only know how to work it. I would have a cozy library at the end of the shop. I would have small, medium, and large cupcakes and muffins. I would have chalkboard paint all over the walls, yet not on the windows that would give natural lighting inside. I would have regulars that come in that I know by name and order. I would recognize people from out of town and lure them in with the best brewed coffee they had ever tasted. It doesn’t matter where this could happen in France. It could be Nice, Paris, or the small town of Normandy. All that matters is that there will be awesome people having an awesome time drinking some awesome coffee.
My mind replays the most miserable events in my life more often than it should. It’s forcing me to linger on with the past and making me become enraged once again. Restraining myself is the only way I’m ever going to get anywhere in life, but those thoughts, people, memories, they are a part of me. I can’t help feeling hopeless. I can’t let go.