There were so many fewer questions when.

I feel sick to my stomach.

“Where are you going son?”

“Nowhere.”

At my dad’s, I’m artistically challenged. He holds me back. He makes me hold my emotions in. I have no fun here.

Maybe he’s part of the problem.

I need to figure out how to get out of here and still have a good life, money-wise. This is icky.

“You’re so ridiculous that it’s so pitiful.”

My dad’s beautiful grammar, ah.

I shouldn’t blame him.