- Mar 7, 2007
- 2,450
- 35
- Faith
- Non-Denom
- Marital Status
- Single
- Politics
- US-Libertarian
On Wednesday afternoon, the day after I called Michelle to ask if I could live with her, I told my dad about my plans.
“You’re doing what?” my dad questioned, his face turning red.
“I’m moving out. I can’t stand to live with you,” I said courageously.
“Don’t speak to me like that. That tone of voice is unacceptable.” His hand came to my throat and squeezed. “Hear me?” I barely squeaked a “yes sir.” He released his death grip on my throat.
“Unpack your bags and then go to the store to get some milk. You better wear a scarf.” He was furious. If I wasn’t so terrified of him I would’ve run away, but I couldn’t.
I put my things away, put foundation and a scarf on my neck, and went to the store. I drove with Underoath blaring from my speakers. The hard sound and deep bass matched the intense speed and beat that my heart was beating. It was 5:27 P.M.
That morning, Michelle told me that I could move in with her family for a bit. Michelle’s family is totally dysfunctional, except, somehow it works for them. Her parents fight a lot but they love each other like crazy. I love going to her house ‘cause I always feel like family.
I got to the store and pulled my scarf around my neck just so that people couldn’t see my dad’s “love marks.” As I walked into the door of Gerry’s mini super market, (a bit of an oxymoron, if you know what I mean) I realized that’s where Jack works. Oh gosh, I hope he’s not here. I shuffled to the back of the medium-sized, family owned grocery store, picked out a two gallon jug of two percent milk. I think it’s funny how they call it two percent milk. It makes me think that two percent of it is milk and the other ninety-eight percent is wa…
“Heeeeey pretty lady! What’cha doing here? Got some milk, I see. I like milk, ‘especially two percent. Make me think I’m drinking…” I joined him to say “two percent milk and ninety-eight percent water.” I giggled and he smiled, but then he realized he was letting his guard down so he coughed into his shoulder and rolled up his sleeves. The thing I love about Jack is that he isn’t fat or skinny for that matter. He has these nice big, but not too big hands. His arms are slightly toned, but most definitely strong.
“I should get back to work,” he said, noticing I’d drifted off into Erinland a bit. “See ya.”
“See ya.” Why’s he gotta be so cute? I’m pining over Cameron, but I can’t get passed Jack’s innocent, yet bad boy image. Either way, Jack was addicting…
I brought the milk to the front and set it on the counter. I finally noticed that Jack was my cashier, after he had scanned the milk and asked for two dollars and thirty-three cents. I must’ve been really out of it because when I didn’t move after he asked for the money he looked at me with those sincere blue… Or were they grey? Those sincere blue, grey eyes… And asked in the sweetest voice, “What’s wrong?” I bit my lip and tried to hide the truth. I dug in my wallet and paid in exact change, grabbed the milk, and left without a word. I climbed in my car and slammed my hands on the steering wheel, gripping it tightly. I put the key in the ignition and turned it, my Big Bertha kicked, sputtered, and then started. “Good girl.” I petted the wheel. I soon realized that I was freezing and turned on the heat. Broken. “I’m so effing cold! Why do you have to do this?! I love you Big Bertha!” Then, in the parking lot screaming at my car, I broke down in tears. “God, why me? Why does it always have to be me?”
Knock! Knock! A tap on my window. It was Jack. I rolled my window down, the only working one.
“You’ve been out here for thirty minutes abusing your poor car. Are you OK?” Jack asked and pierced my heart with his sincere blue, grey eyes.
“Just go.” With that I rolled up my window and skidded off, partly because I’m a new driver and partly because it was the end of November and there was a thin, but slick layer of ice on the ground. I drove home okay, listening to Underoath.
When I got home, it was 6:42 P.M. My dad was gone. Probably drinking or “doing the horizontal polka,” as he likes to put it. Nothing is more horrendous than your own father telling you about his relations.
I went to bed feeling like I’d been thrown through a loop. It was nine P.M. and I lay in bed with my mind spinning. I jumped out of bed realizing I hadn’t told Michelle that I can’t move in with her and saw I had three text messages from Michelle.
Michelle: You can move in today. Come over now!
Michelle: Hey, where in the world are you?
Me: Can’t move in. Dad says he needs the child support he gets from my mom.
Michelle: LAAAAaaaaAAAAAAaammmeee sauce! Sorry, girl. Good luck.
Me: Eh… Bye. Thanks.
I went to bed wondering what in the world I was going to do. Life sucks.
“You’re doing what?” my dad questioned, his face turning red.
“I’m moving out. I can’t stand to live with you,” I said courageously.
“Don’t speak to me like that. That tone of voice is unacceptable.” His hand came to my throat and squeezed. “Hear me?” I barely squeaked a “yes sir.” He released his death grip on my throat.
“Unpack your bags and then go to the store to get some milk. You better wear a scarf.” He was furious. If I wasn’t so terrified of him I would’ve run away, but I couldn’t.
I put my things away, put foundation and a scarf on my neck, and went to the store. I drove with Underoath blaring from my speakers. The hard sound and deep bass matched the intense speed and beat that my heart was beating. It was 5:27 P.M.
That morning, Michelle told me that I could move in with her family for a bit. Michelle’s family is totally dysfunctional, except, somehow it works for them. Her parents fight a lot but they love each other like crazy. I love going to her house ‘cause I always feel like family.
I got to the store and pulled my scarf around my neck just so that people couldn’t see my dad’s “love marks.” As I walked into the door of Gerry’s mini super market, (a bit of an oxymoron, if you know what I mean) I realized that’s where Jack works. Oh gosh, I hope he’s not here. I shuffled to the back of the medium-sized, family owned grocery store, picked out a two gallon jug of two percent milk. I think it’s funny how they call it two percent milk. It makes me think that two percent of it is milk and the other ninety-eight percent is wa…
“Heeeeey pretty lady! What’cha doing here? Got some milk, I see. I like milk, ‘especially two percent. Make me think I’m drinking…” I joined him to say “two percent milk and ninety-eight percent water.” I giggled and he smiled, but then he realized he was letting his guard down so he coughed into his shoulder and rolled up his sleeves. The thing I love about Jack is that he isn’t fat or skinny for that matter. He has these nice big, but not too big hands. His arms are slightly toned, but most definitely strong.
“I should get back to work,” he said, noticing I’d drifted off into Erinland a bit. “See ya.”
“See ya.” Why’s he gotta be so cute? I’m pining over Cameron, but I can’t get passed Jack’s innocent, yet bad boy image. Either way, Jack was addicting…
I brought the milk to the front and set it on the counter. I finally noticed that Jack was my cashier, after he had scanned the milk and asked for two dollars and thirty-three cents. I must’ve been really out of it because when I didn’t move after he asked for the money he looked at me with those sincere blue… Or were they grey? Those sincere blue, grey eyes… And asked in the sweetest voice, “What’s wrong?” I bit my lip and tried to hide the truth. I dug in my wallet and paid in exact change, grabbed the milk, and left without a word. I climbed in my car and slammed my hands on the steering wheel, gripping it tightly. I put the key in the ignition and turned it, my Big Bertha kicked, sputtered, and then started. “Good girl.” I petted the wheel. I soon realized that I was freezing and turned on the heat. Broken. “I’m so effing cold! Why do you have to do this?! I love you Big Bertha!” Then, in the parking lot screaming at my car, I broke down in tears. “God, why me? Why does it always have to be me?”
Knock! Knock! A tap on my window. It was Jack. I rolled my window down, the only working one.
“You’ve been out here for thirty minutes abusing your poor car. Are you OK?” Jack asked and pierced my heart with his sincere blue, grey eyes.
“Just go.” With that I rolled up my window and skidded off, partly because I’m a new driver and partly because it was the end of November and there was a thin, but slick layer of ice on the ground. I drove home okay, listening to Underoath.
When I got home, it was 6:42 P.M. My dad was gone. Probably drinking or “doing the horizontal polka,” as he likes to put it. Nothing is more horrendous than your own father telling you about his relations.
I went to bed feeling like I’d been thrown through a loop. It was nine P.M. and I lay in bed with my mind spinning. I jumped out of bed realizing I hadn’t told Michelle that I can’t move in with her and saw I had three text messages from Michelle.
Text message #1
Michelle: You can move in today. Come over now!
Text message #2
Michelle: Hey, where in the world are you?
Text message #3
Michelle: Where are you?! I’m worried. Did your dad flip?Me: Can’t move in. Dad says he needs the child support he gets from my mom.
Michelle: LAAAAaaaaAAAAAAaammmeee sauce! Sorry, girl. Good luck.
Me: Eh… Bye. Thanks.
I went to bed wondering what in the world I was going to do. Life sucks.
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