My family don't talk to each other. Well really, my brother don't talk to me. He has his things, and I appreciate that he likes to keep them to himself. But I am intitled to worry.
We may not be full of quirks and misfortunes, we may not be constantly at ends with each other (atm) and we may not have tragic stories that would make death row men cry. But when push comes to shove, we are simply ... dysfunctional.
My home is the centre of all the shit in my life right now. I can pin point every shitty moment, and put it into my house.
I need vodka.