1988

I wish I could say today has been off to a good start, but I'd be lying, and I have a strict no-tolerence policy towards lying. I wish I could say that Amanda let me have the shower first, but if I did, I'd be passing over the exquisite agony of a cascade of icy water. I wish I could say she'd hugged me. Or Alex. Said something different than "I need my comb back." I love my family, but they're not terribly demonstrative, at least, we kids aren't.

I'd like to pretend mom and Amanda didn't get into an argument after breakfast. Mom wanted to make a special dinner and she wanted help thinking of ideas--Amanda let her know she didn't care. I'd rather it have ended there, but instead, it evolved into a request for her to just stop watching movies in the evenings, be a part of this family, and culminated in my little sister walking out after declaring that all we do it bitch to her all the time.

I wish I had more than a shaky grasp on my temper. Then, perhaps, I'd not have these fingernail marks on the palms of my hands from trying not to lose it. I'd like Amanda to know that I love her, more than my own life. I'd give anything to not have it come down to harsh words because as much as I don't want to fight, I will not stand by while she hurts our mother. Our mother. Who walked out near tears because my sister doesn't seem, sometimes, to care about anybody but herself.

So I will finish studying here, and I will answer some phone calls. I will run by the store and pick up things for tonight, and I will go home and start so that when mom gets home, and dad finishes work, there won't be any scrambling before Sabbath arrives. And that will be the only part of today that redeems it, and it will be more than worth it.

I wish this had happened any day but today. Happy birthday, me.