Spent all of Saturday at some party--- I woke up, left the house, and I only got home when it was something like 10pm. Wasn't too bad. Except I felt slightly guilty about not being around to help with the chores and stuff- I suppose my room needs a bit of a vacuuming, and there's a lot of crap which I should really throw out. I spent this morning in relative peace- well, I slept through most of it. My lack of existence in this house made me think- hmmm, this is kind of strange.
Until my parents erupted into an argument about god knows fucking what, all too spontaneously. My sister started crying, I sat at the dining table with food in my mouth, slightly confused. I'd obviously missed something while I was away yesterday or asleep this morning. Either way, there was a lot of shouting, accusations were hurled, like usual neither of my parents thought to blame themselves and neither of them would learn to calm the fuck down.
And I was like, "ah, and THIS was why I didn't want to be in the house."
It was scary, how for that one morning I almost forgot about how shit everything was, and was actually having a nice time. Then reality slaps you in the face like a bitch.
If I could sleep through both Saturday and Sunday, I would. God knows why I used to look forward to weekends.
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