Sunday, 18 January 2015

Whiskeyjacks. I've never seen one with my own eyes. I like birds, though. We have owls here and they are SO LOUD. It's awesome.

The Swedes have moved on, the house is semi-pulled back together (Ben and PJ are working on it) and I had breakfast with the devil this morning because he was lonely, he was angry and he wanted to negotiate*.

He also pulled rank over Sam, who is starting to get irritated at the lack of attention I pay to church and Sam actually sent Caleb a scathing message that I saw because Caleb's phone was sitting on the counter while he made cheese toast for my breakfast. He even did tea instead of coffee because eighteen days, you know. I'm doing great. I really want a cup now, but my poor fragile kidneys and my anxiety won't allow it.

Sam sent a scathing message to everyone, as I later found out, that they need to show up and make an effort if they want to live the best life possible. We support him fully as heathens, we do. He hates that. Jake did too.

Caleb sent back a scathing message and pulled rank over God too and I stopped wondering about his phone after that.

Lochlan is gearing up to announce that he's going to work for Batman, I think. He hasn't said much. When I ask he tells me he's thinking, and it's no longer as reassuring as it was when I was eleven and didn't know what it meant.

I might be sort of drunk right now too, I'm sorry. Dalton poured me a good one an hour ago and it is lighting up my insides and burning my expressions brightly into my face and making it hard to concentrate but he said I looked like I needed it after a long weekend and they are allowed to medicate me as they see fit. Some of them are until they cross lines, that is. But he cleared it with Lochlan first so I guess it's okay and I won't be up late tonight anyway and Matt is making spaghetti for dinner so I can just sort of slide out of the weekend on a melting ice cube and the memory of the hard hug Caleb gave me when I realized he really didn't want me to leave.

(*He wants Joel to stay. I say Joel goes. It's a Irish standoff and dammit, he's not going to win.)