difficult definition from a book

So it went like this: She comes up to me and says, "My 'I' has one vision and that she wants me and only me." And I say I don't want her. Because she dumped me and sold herself to those guys on TV. She lights a cigarette (it must have been some strong cigarette, because when I told her her makeup was all messed up, she quickly blushed and "ran away" (to put it politely) to the TOILET. I never know why they write "TOILET" in capital letters and not "Toilet" in lowercase. I don't know, and the guy behind the bar didn't know either. So I fell. I guess they picked me up because I saw this whore dancing next to some guy. But I keep telling myself she's a slut, a faggot, and that I'm already fucking her. I knew she'd come soon and that she'd start being "Lissass." And I won't listen to her at all. I'll stay silent. That's how I'll stay silent now. I won't look her in those fucking Jewish eyes. Now I'll find myself a purebred woman.

She: "Listen, can we start again?" She shows me the keys to her apartment and adds: "My parents aren't home..." and I'm already saying: of course, probably not (in my head), that I don't care – to create uncertainty, so that this beautiful fifteen-year-old will be begging on her knees. She's red again. Now I'm lighting a cigarette. She says she wants to dance with me and I say: no. And no, because I won't agree anyway. She stands and prays to the "wall" – to me – it was so fucking amazing I can't tell. I knew she was about to cry and blur. And no one would be able to touch her because she'd have a seizure.

So I had to take her on my lap and whisper in her ear: (of course, first I had a few shots and smoked a joint) you're a stupid little slut who doesn't know what she wants. No... I'm not sorry, I know what you want, for me to bang you all the time. And I didn't care, because I didn't.

She burst into tears and sat down in the middle of the tears she'd shed. I was so proud of myself. I'd never been so fucking proud. I think after a while, her friend came and picked her up from that puddle. Although she looked as cute as a floppy-eared owl without a tail. So, since I wasn't there, it wasn't like that.

"Excuse me, what time does this place open?" I asked the waiter. He politely said he didn't know and had to go because there was a guy waiting for him. He washed his hands and left. I decided to take a walk. Then they picked me up and threw me out of the gay place. It started raining, so I smiled, opened a beer, and boom. My father was standing with the waiter. I was so happily pissed off, I was about to go over and shout, "You dickhead, I'll tell your mother everything!" Or, "Excuse me, ma'am, what time is it?" And slam the door.

Actually, she came up to me and introduced me to her friend and family friend.

He was talking about me. I mentally recited it and threw up on a family friend.

The gay woman drove me home. I guess I didn't wake up early this morning, because it was evening.

I received a few thousand spam messages from a single text message, and endless arguments from my mother about how she and my father worked so hard to make sure I had something to eat. I told her my father had already eaten and that he probably wouldn't want to come home anytime soon.

She said she didn't understand and wanted an explanation for my bratty behavior. And I told her there was nothing to talk about. She said again that there was, and we would, because she was a psychologist with a university degree, not like others with a one- or two-year course. And I said I was very happy she was so smart and that I was going to vocational school to become a butcher. She stretched out her arms, knelt down, picked up her books, and searched for a term to describe me. And I said, "You won't find it here (in these books)," and showed her the November issue of "Young Butcher." I said, "If not a butcher, then a grave digger and a dickhead." My mother cries and says she's going for a walk because she must have gotten some difficult definition from a book.

She comes. It was my father. She comes into my room and asks how I'm feeling. I say I'm fine, but I don't know how he is in a moment, because my mother will be back. She says, "Why did I tell you and I didn't?" I said, "I didn't tell you, I suggested it." My father runs around my room. He starts crying. My mother comes in. I light a cigarette. She looks at her. My father starts apologizing. My mother thinks it's about the anniversary. She says it was a long time ago and that she doesn't remember. My father says, "No, it was yesterday. And I can't cope with it." My mother looks for the date, looks for medication. She looks, finds the truth. She bangs the book on the floor, leaves the apartment, doesn't come back today.

***

My mother burst into the house and starts yelling, "No," and that she doesn't want to be with my father anymore. And I say, "I know," but I'm not sure if he's my father. She starts crying, says she doesn't feel well, and that I should give her a cigarette. So I gave it to her. She lit some crappy incense and started crying. I decided I had to get out of the apartment. It was interestingly cold outside. Some guy was pissing. Some woman was shouting, "Not under my window, you bastard."

I saw Ola (the one from the bar) calling. I answered:

"M., listen to me, give me another chance... Please, let's meet, let's go somewhere together, please, M.."

And I said: "Okay, baby, we can meet."

I'm looking at my windows in the building. My mother throws away the TV with the remote (Father's favorite device). My father is also playing.

Everything is playing

. The TV arrived. The ambulance. The police. Honestly, that's all I had now. It was so fucking awful, I don't know. I think they saved my father. Because that's what I heard on Ola's news (because I don't have a TV anymore). Ola said she was so sorry, that she wanted to help me somehow and everything. I said I didn't want help. Even if my mother goes to prison (but they will talk about her having graduated from university, not like others who studied for one or two years. But they will talk. Aunt Elwira will have epilepsy. Everyone will have epilepsy) and they won't save my father.

I made up with Ola and turned into a melodrama. And then she said I was a loser, and I agreed, and that I was stupid, sweet blue LM.

I got up and called her names for a good few minutes.

I might have even killed her, but no. Because that blood I had was from her nose. I left the room, pissed off. She ran out too, shouting something at some macho, whores, faggots, muscled pigs, sluts, sluts, and b- ... She said they thought I was crazy and I did it "accidentally."

I was happy. Maybe I'll finally have my own apartment. They'll be talking shit at school: he lost his girlfriend, his mother, his psycho, and his father, his gay. It'll be great.

I woke up around eleven twenty-two. I smelled something coming from the kitchen. Had my mother come to terms with her mental illness? I hesitantly asked if everything was okay. She said yes, everything was still as fucked as it had been for the last dozen or so years of her idiotic marriage to a gay, a pedant, and a hysterical man with a prostate. I ate what she put on my plate. It was a bit of a mess, but I was really, really hungry.

I met up with Stonka, a junkie and a dealer in the best stuff in this whole fucking hellhole. I bought another week's supply from him—to cure my hunger. Then he took me out for girls. He took some whore with a Jewish face, I took some dyed-blonde with light skin. The girls were super high. At least I had a good potluck. I told him I wouldn't touch any of them. I wouldn't get into anything they had. Anything they wanted to offer me. I told him I wasn't fucking stupid and I didn't want an HIV-positive friend or some kind of filth on my body. Fuck. The whole day was very refreshing. I drank, smoked weed, beat up a Jew, and fucked a nun. In two words: fucking beautiful. Simply moving.