clockworks and cold steel

the pen scratches across the paper as my mom illustrates with pictures as well as words the bizzare make-up of my dad's side of the family.

in the past forty eight hours i've eaten a lot of cheese, cleaned my room, semi-trained a new employee, downed quite a bit of rum and reviewed my father's will, both final and living.

the heat has drained me of just about everything it's possible to feel. besides, i'm not sure how exactly i'm supposed to feel about the scrawled note my father slid across the table at me- his ability to talk gone long ago.

"any special requests?"

how come i couldn't voice the one thing i wanted to say, the one request i'm so desperate to voice, the one thing i want to be assured to get, the one thing that would really make me happy?

i need more rum. and maybe some merlot.

i need you to ignore this, but click on the new propaganda-type button on the sidebar and really and truly believe that your voice can make a difference.

god, i would totally RULE if i were on the one commercial.