my life's gone down the pan

and the hits keep coming. and they're getting lower every time.

whenever the phone rings in our room, a script is followed. the person who is being called says, in a semi-shocked and high voice: "OOooOoohhh i wonder who it is?" or, disgruntled: "who's calling me?!?"

and then the other person says: "well...*someone's* popular"

it's a good script. i like the script. this time, i was popular. it was my mom, calling from kath and raisin's house.

after a few pleasantries, my mom says "i have some bad news for you." my stomach instantly clenchs, and my palms are slick. her voice was telling me it wasn't good.

and boy, it isn't good.

my dad's in the hospital. and i'm not sure if he'll be leaving. tomorrow, after my exam, i have to call the neurological unit at the hospital in london, and see if the abcess in my father's brain will be the final whallop doled out by whatever deity is presiding over his life right now.

i kinda feel like throwing up. and then that voice, the one that has been so sarcastic in the past, and angry at the stupid things and happy at the silly ones, pipes up in a wavering, but unbreaking voice:

"don't let the bastards grind you down."