CHOCOLATE, LIKE DIRT
I returned home this summer to save money. Free room and board, catching up on bills, and trying to recover from a silent illness.
I suppose I was asking for it. Coming back home. Saving money is no real substitute for freedom and a real bed. Someone making you feel guilty for sleeping on their couch is a crappy way to spend the summer. I'm not really saving money, either. Not anymore. But I'm stuck here.
I have friends here, so I shouldn't be lonely, but I miss the ones at home, so I still am. I miss my freedom for the price of groceries. I like working up here, for the most part, so that's not the problem, but I can't sleep in the fridge at work. Oh, I suppose I could, but even a couch is more comfortable, though my house is as cold.
Here, my father is dying, and I get to watch.
Here, my sister's obsession with her weight becomes ridiculous, and I am a party to it.
Here, I see my mother become less of herself and more of my stepfather's invention, but no one seems to notice.
Here, I watch as my nephew ruins his life (according to everyone) for the love of a girl, and I have to admit that no one will ever love me in such a way.
And here I work in a candy store, I am unhappy, and all I get is chocolate, like dirt, under my fingernails.