Busy weekend. That’s an understatement. I ran up and down the stairs so many times. Weren’t weekends my breaks? Not this time, it seemed. Every time I settled in, I heard the call of my mom, begging for help with Charles. She couldn’t watch him. She had to finish the taxes of a dozen or so people who couldn’t use turbo tax themselves.
The bruises on my back and legs multiplied, and scabs appeared from the scratches that little boy left on my hands when I released him for a moment after he’d been naughty. I couldn’t punish him long because every time, he screamed bloody murder and Mom swooped in to save him from his time outs. I was hardly able to do a damn thing.
Those two days, my brain felt so dead after Charles was finally in bed, that I just stared at my screen for hours before I crawled into bed and slept until after noon, if my cat allowed me to get to sleep before seven in the morning.
Sunday, the lack of rest was too much, and I could hardly concentrate enough to derp my way through Dungeons and Dragons by having my character interact with his pet pig, because the other player characters were playing Dykes and Dildoes: Drama Edition. Nobody seemed able to stay in character, probably because we went almost a month without playing.
Game ended early when the DM noticed that the rogue’s player fell asleep at the computer at some point, and the usual whining began. I tuned it out because I was tired, and the rest of the night passed by without much incident. My cat didn’t knock over too much shit before I kicked her out of my room at three in the morning after wishing her happy birthday.
She turned two at some point on the fifteenth, after all. Tax day. That was how I remembered. her old owner telling me.
Sleep was slow to visit me, and morning came too fast. Sliding out of bed felt like a short-and-shitty roller coaster ride that was wobbling and rickety. It was purely my fault– I begged my parents for a loft bed when I was eleven or twelve, and never looked back. High beds were awesome.
Except in the mornings, of course. Then, they were Satan’s own kneecaps.
I forced myself to dress in something that wasn’t too threadbare or too small, and carried my laptop upstairs, ‘ready’ to face a long day that Mom warned me about the night before. Up at five. Don’t go back to sleep. Get the kids onto their busses. Make dinner in the crock pot. Babysit after Mom got home because she was going the hell to bed. We’d get Olive Garden, just the two of us, later in the week. I just had to pick a time and find a babysitter that was available and wouldn’t beat the shit out of our newest foster kid, Junior.
Fuck, I hated Junior. I wanted to beat him with a vacuum, just like another foster child we once had. Both Junior and the one I smacked with the sweeper stick of the vacuum never shut up. They talked on and on even when asked politely to stuff it, and they were completely self-centered. Junior had the added ‘bonus’ of being a victim-mindset, who thought he could scream ‘abuse’ any time I told him not to talk to me, or told him not to bother me when I was making sure Charles didn’t fuck shit up.
Thankfully, I still had Janelle around– that’s the other foster kid, who we’ve had since before Charles arrived. We had her before, several years ago, back when she was ten or so. She was horrible back then, much better now. She’s been so helpful, that I’ve got no idea what I’d do without her.
Anyway, the morning went by without too much trouble. Charles was very happy to go to school, and I settled in for some ‘quality’ writing after I spoke to a few people on f-list for some pointers on how I could improve my writing for the future. One person was a quack who chose to go on for hours about his personal opinions about the characters and point of view I used. He told me also that I didn’t use enough description, which I took seriously until I saw his works. I couldn’t even read past a single paragraph because it was all purple prose. I decided to take his advice with a large grain of salt, and sought advice from someone more reputable.
Oddly, I found the advice from an artist, who gave me the brilliant advice of ‘read it out loud’ and think more carefully about where I go into detailled description. She offered examples and helped open my eyes a bit more than the previous guy. I took her suggestions to heart in my story, and felt it was an improvement from previous works, though still clumsy and wobbly. It was better, and that was the point.
Once the first story was done, I rewarded myself with a viewing of Lilo and Stitch, and then tried for hours to think of a story idea. I shouldn’t have rewarded myself– it always leads to trouble getting back to work.
I made dinner and plotted what to write about. I browsed forums and tried to think. I stared blankly at the wall and pondered.
What the fuck could I write about?
Before I could get a single word in, I saw Mom’s big red van pull up, and I grimaced. Time to babysit. My brother walked by, and I begged him to help out. He eagerly agreed, and I moved my arse downstairs in time for dinner.
The chaos of the family coming home lasted a half hour, and finally Mom went to bed. Bip took the kids outside to have a camp fire, and I went downstairs and sat down to stare at my screen.
Instead of seeing ideas forming inside of me, I saw the backs of my eyelids. I dozed for a few moments at a time, between Mom texting me frantically to keep order. Up and down the stairs I went, and only a drink of apple juice revived me from zombification long enough to remind Bip that it was past Charles’ bath time and bed time, and then slump downstairs to write about my shit weekend like a cheapo.
Once I finished, I devoured too many peeps and gave up on making my brain work any longer.