Peril
My mom and dad are looking to buy a new car to replace my mom's '95 Lumina. This afternoon (Monday), the Goldbricker told me that he's probably not going to trade-in the Lumina as previously discussed, but will instead get rid of the Mousemobile and let me drive the fucking Lumina. Mom has wanted to get rid of the Mousemobile for years; so, talking to her was useless. I'm not sure I've ever been more lonely than I am tonight.

For years, my dad has spoken of the first car he ever owned, a '63 Super-Chevy that started its life as a police cruiser. How can he have spoken wistfully of Super-Chevy for all these years and then sell/scrap the Mousemobile for purely pragmatic reasons? Bog, where in the hell am I going to get the money to buy the Mousemobile from him? I have to try. I'd never be able to live with myself if I didn't at least try. I can't afford a car. Oh, God, they're going to get rid of the Mousemobile.

What does it say about me as a person that I didn't cry when Grandma Wilson died two years ago, but I'm bawling now? All the monstrous things my father has said in his life that I'll either forgive or forget, but I'll never be able to forgive him for this.