. . . . in which i go to see lillias perform at a cottagecore-themed burlesque show . . . .

all this shit is hurting me so much right now, it’s sucking out my soul . . . i hope there’s something good in me left when i’m done with it . . . .

another $100 wasted on a float consumed with thoughts of revenge. trying to make sense of it all. what evidence is there? turning the heating off in the middle of winter. wearing two sweaters and complaining that she didn’t understand the thermostat. telling lucy one of them has got to go. wiping his phone 36 hours after he died. accessing his personal documents locked in his brief case. telling me, after his phone was wiped, that the police could still find it all. it all amounts to a pile of fucking nothing i suppose.

it’s clear to me now: she thought dad’s will was void because it hadn’t been updated since they moved. and she of course blocked any attempt for him to update it, just like she’s done before. and she meticulously destroyed anything else that might have resembled his last will and testament just in case. i think she conspired with mary to try to gain control of what remained. but she fucked up because she didn’t realize that solicitor was still the executor of his estate. but she acted like it was all a plot that the girls had against her.

if you’re reading this, and i sincerely hope you aren’t, just know that i hope you go to hell for what you’ve done. and i hope that your last days are filled with misery. they surely will be if mary is taking care of you. you must know that she hates you too. because, just like you, she hates everyone, and will only stick around if you’re good for something. have you not figured out what that thing is? or maybe you have and you think that’s what makes her strong. either way, you’re despicable. be fucked.

there’s only one way i will sign anything: if she hands over the rest of the property to the kids as it states in dad’s will, and if she gives lucy the extra 100,000 that dad had intended for her from the sale of the old house. then we’ll talk.

almost shit my pants today on my tea date with kira. got down to the last line of defense - just the ass cheeks defying physics by holding it all in. if there was any romance left in that relationship i’m sure it’s dead now.

maybe it was the moment that broke the catholic in me, just fuck about he says, reverberating around the vault of the church, from the organ loft . . . i had never been so abruptly confronted with something i was sure could not possibly have happened, for all i knew of the world, i must have started dissociating and i’m not sure when exactly i came out of it. so thank you, in a way, mr griffiths, you crazy cunt

there can be no feeling better than cuddling a fucked up cat without a care for any of your stupid lists

. . . . in which i am sat facing dad, who seems to be upright as if in that leather arm chair . . . i touch his hand or wrist and realise it is warm, almost hot . . . i ask him if he is still alive and he responds animatedly but not exactly verbally . . . i ask him what it was that I needed to know but he just laughs and slumps to the side . . . .

new business idea in which i travel door to door informing people that the rose that is growing in their garden is in fact a dr huey and needs either to be cut back to the ground if it can be rescued or else removed and replaced for a voluntary donation

the state of the liberal media in 2025 is as if a theater critic who is reviewing a production of hamlet starring a chimpanzee and faithfully examines aspects of the chimp’s pacing, his convention-breaking interpretation, his stage presence, while he is throwing literal shit at us, the audience

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