Ah, rock bottom. My old friend. It's been a while since I've found myself here—not since Dad's rough patch, in fact—but I'd be lying if I said there wasn't something comforting about it.
These ice cream cone-printed jammies. The unending stream of cooking shows blaring from my laptop. The open peanut butter jar on the coffee table, spoon sticking straight up, and the dancing pizza logo on my phone, counting down the minutes until dinner arrives.
Home sweet home. And okay—this is a pity party for one. I get it. I'm in a hell of my own making, and I have no one to blame but myself.
Seriously, what was I thinking? Taking all my bitterness and pain out on another person—so gross. And damn, I wasn't even good at it.
I'm just not the vengeful type. Dad always teases me because I tear up at c
