Not cut out for parenting.

Oh crap, oh crap. Oh, crappy crappy crapola crapness.

I'm about to cry. The orange shagband I'm taking my sadness out on is straining, and I don't want to give a blow job just because I broke some plastic. Six months have I been pinning my life down on maybes, maybe he'll change his mind, maybe he'll have some kind of mercy on me, maybe he'll forget and never ask again. Oh why oh why are my walls so thin. I can hear Mamie in the kitchen, shouting with frustration, and if I use my imagination enough, I can hear a calm deep northern voice through the phone line, telling her what she's supposed to think. Why can't they just support me? Can't they just deal with me, accept me, or something? I can hear it all through the walls, my parents wish they'd never had me, they wish I hadn't caused so many problems, or had so many problems they can't be arsed to deal with, I didn't bleed them dry, I didn't always make the wrong decisions. Have I made the wrong decision? Is everything about to fall through, am I reaching that bit of life when your head pops out of the childish cloud and never goes down again? I don't know. I do know.

They hate me.