Deadra Acosta

April 28 20XX

Househole

DEAD ON ARRIVAL

And later on, they said it’d be born, that insolent fuck, some shit like that, yeah, go eat a bag of dicks. Motherfucker never left the room, never said a word at dinner, slept all day, didn’t work, face in the phone, that bitch.

“Blood” is bullshit—and thin—like my nerves. We aren’t love, having lived here. Dad and Darlene from LinkedIn dropped the fuck out. And being the bottom-feeders they are, the SNAP benefits and medicare card is the only reason I haven’t starved to death. Dark shit, hard times, uh huh, yeah, but I’ll fuckin’ eat them all anymore dead. It’s all I have left.

Apparently there was $10,000 put away, all going towards “picking themselves up, getting a new place and a job.” That was nothing. That was years down the drain. Yeah, there’s, no sign of anything yet—left.

To think I graduate in a month is crazy. But doesn’t that sound stereotypical: me, the pseudo-ditzy, pseudo-intellectual teenage girl (barely legal for all you fucks) finding it so “Crazy!” that I will receive a high school diploma. Big deal. I’ll walk for anyone who’ll lick the floor I walk on.

I was never supposed to go to college—er, technical school—either. That was never talked about till tenth grade. And we’re supposed to be broke as shit, but that’s always misleading. It’s always misleading.

And we? What we? There is no we in this house. At least none I’m in. I claim no ownership of the lifestyle going on here, the whole mass of fat on the meat and the fat in their faces from drinking all day. Go fuck yourself, you fucking creep. I swear, I’ll fucking kill you.

“No, cut it out, fuck you,” I say.

“Hey, Deadra, could I trouble you for a beer?” Dad said, and next time I’ll cut his dick off.