Post by Pepper on Oct 22, 2008 2:23:03 GMT -5
Primera entrada, supongo…
Here it is... my journal. The doctor said that writing in this thing if i felt irritable when i quit smoking might be a good idea... get some of the anger out. Know-nothing pendejo. I'd be better off asking one of the others to shoot me in the head. Heard that was good for quitting. Of course, you lose some brain function, and sometimes go blind or deaf, but you don't want cigarettes anymore.
I need a smoke. The moments between jobs, when I wait for a new assignment, a new target... they stretch out forever. I can't help but think, daydream, feel lost.
Quizás debo hablar de mi pasado... not something I really like thinking about. My mother still lives in the town I was born in, on the coast of beautiful Spain. My father passed when I was young, leaving her to raise Diego and me without much help... she was almost married again once. Until I spit on him, told him he wasn't worthy of her, and chased him out the door. She laughed, even as she used the belt on my tender young behind. Ah, it hurt, but it was worth it to make mamá laugh again.
Grr... I am getting maudlin again. Stupid 'therapeutic' journal. Maybe I will go call Maria and make a pitcher of sangria. There is no risk when she and I are together... or at least it feels that way. I hope that it will continue to be thus.
Here it is... my journal. The doctor said that writing in this thing if i felt irritable when i quit smoking might be a good idea... get some of the anger out. Know-nothing pendejo. I'd be better off asking one of the others to shoot me in the head. Heard that was good for quitting. Of course, you lose some brain function, and sometimes go blind or deaf, but you don't want cigarettes anymore.
I need a smoke. The moments between jobs, when I wait for a new assignment, a new target... they stretch out forever. I can't help but think, daydream, feel lost.
Quizás debo hablar de mi pasado... not something I really like thinking about. My mother still lives in the town I was born in, on the coast of beautiful Spain. My father passed when I was young, leaving her to raise Diego and me without much help... she was almost married again once. Until I spit on him, told him he wasn't worthy of her, and chased him out the door. She laughed, even as she used the belt on my tender young behind. Ah, it hurt, but it was worth it to make mamá laugh again.
Grr... I am getting maudlin again. Stupid 'therapeutic' journal. Maybe I will go call Maria and make a pitcher of sangria. There is no risk when she and I are together... or at least it feels that way. I hope that it will continue to be thus.
