No more drama. Please.

I never managed to go into much detail about it, but the story behind my greatest birthday lament involved my family's unique talent for spontaneous combustion. My two sisters are at war. My parents announce their desire to not get caught in the undertow, but they have clearly chosen sides. As they always do. And the damage isn't anywhere near being done with me. If it matters to anyone, I have only gotten smacked around by any of this because (1) it happened during my birthday celebration and (2) I am fond of justice. But these facts haven't spared me any suffering. Nor have they influenced my father in his rigid unwillingness to have an actual conversation with me. Or at least one where he doesn't roll his eyes, walk away from me while I am still speaking, or deny that he has said any of the things we both know he has said. For all the hassle, he might as well be my girlfriend.

Today was not my favorite day.

To commemorate the actual carnage, these are pictures Beulah took before all hell broke loose. Yes, that's a kickboard, and, no, I don't need it.

My mother is traveling in Asia at the moment. And when she returns, it will be my parents' anniversary. I was so sad this time last year. I put a picture from their wedding in the new art journal I had just begun. And I sat at the table, sweating much of the time in the cruel Los Angeles heat, hoping for inspiration and sentiment and talent to transport me from the clutching grip of inspiration and sentiment and lack of talent. But at least last year, I wasn't also sad because my father isn't kept awake at night by the knowledge that I am kept awake at night by the knowledge that he doesn't care that I am kept awake at all. If you aren't following any of that, you are in vast company.