No time for writing today because I hate my daughter. Her words, not mine.
I'm so selfish. She only had ten lights turned on and she wasn't even in the same room. So just because she'd turned them all on; why did she have to turn them off? And so what if she had the entire contents of her wardrobe (closet) draped all over the floor? It wasn't as if I hadn't seen them before. And even (after fifty times of pleading) she had finally double locked the front door before she went out and bought the entire contents of a shoe shop, it wasn't her fault that she'd left almost every window in the house wide open.
And another thing. Even though she's only broken three mobile phones this year, why couldn't she have an Iphone? I'm so mean, and I hate her, and I wish she were dead. In the meantime I hadn't uttered so much as a word. But then I didn't have to. My silence was mute confession of my meanness and guilt.
And another thing. why couldn't she...by this time I'd fled to the previous sanctuary of my study and my new novel. All that awaited me there was an imaginary monster devouring the citizens of London. I know who would be a candidate... but I got no further because my computer wasn't working. Neither was hers. It was only one slice of toast in the cd tray. It wasn't as if it was her fault. After all. It must have been mine because I hated her and I wish she were, etc.
Is this just a bad dream? Will be like this forever?