Godzeira! Godzeira! I've been sort of upset for the whole day. Upset over numerous things, but mostly about Godzilla/Grace Kelly.

I can't live like this anymore. I can't put up with obsessive compulsive cleaning habits compounded with her recluse life, compounded with her immaturity, compounded with her selfishness and her constantly atomic-flash temper. I at least stand up to her, but I hate that every day is a battle that I'm starting to lose again on what my self worth as a person is. I hate that she has alienated my grandmother from me. It isn't just me and grandma anymore having heart to hearts, it's me and grandma with Gozilla carefully supervising in the background, like I'm the one that is constantly bossing her around, like I'm the one that wearies her with explosions of temper, like I'm the one that tells Grandma what she can or cannot do in her own house.

The thing I hate the most about being back, is that it doesn't feel like home anymore. It did, but now it doesn't. I'm just that extra person rooming in the spare bedroom again- the inconvenience to everyone elses life that must be kept track of constantly, for fear of her "young" impulsiveness. It came as a slap of realization as I cleaned the upstairs bathroom. I have two sixteen centimeter shelves in the medicine cabinet for my toiletries, Godzilla has conquered the rest of the room, and the entire bathroom closet. Someone elses life has become more important than my own again, rather than equally as important. These thoughts of where I will be shunted off to next keep entering my mind, and I am finding that I have no other financially sound alternatives. So, of course I know I will tough it out.

One thing is for certain, and everyone knows it except for her, is that Gozilla will never leave this house. It started out as temporary, but now she is too dependent on Grandma to ever leave. I wanted to ask her today if she realized that she would have nothing to account for that was worthwhile in her life if she got hit by a bus tomorrow, nothing to be proud of, no great accomplishments, but realized that it would have been judgemental and very hurtful. So I bit my tongue and took her hurtful words instead, reiterating what I should have fired hotly back in the privacy of my own room.

Godzilla and I took out the boat yesterday and the day before. I sacrificed both days to her, and though I try to be humble about things, I do know when someone is being absolutely ungrateful too, and constantly using other people (myself included) as the means to her own ends. I wondered today if she was a sociopath, as the extent of her selfishness is unequalled with other people, but realized that sociopaths probably don't have tempers like she does. You can't hurt a sociopath's feelings though, I suspect. Godzilla will cry at the drop of a hat, slam the door, punch your arm, slap your face, and sociopaths don't do that. They just kill people who are nuisances.

The real big thing that sucks about this, is that if I told my father how unhappy I was, not at the prospect of living in this house, but residing with Godzilla, he would swoop down and find a solution immediately, give Godzilla whatfor, and solve the problem. But I hate it when he solves my problems, because his problem solving equals my pride swallowing, and I hate doing that when I've already got so little to keep my grubby paws on in the first place. And it isn't like it's unbearable, and Godzilla doesn't love me, she's just got a funny way of showing it.

I really have to get a second job next year though, because if I do that, I can move out. I don't care how little school I may have left, I don't think I can do this again. It gets harder and harder to live with anyone as the years pass, and if I don't find out what it is like to be lonely and feeling like I want someone to move in with me, I may end up as dysfunctional in the relationship department as the holy terror herself. I can't end up like that, or anything like her, and I'm still so afraid that some of it may rub off on me.

In other things, a raspberry pastry is just not digesting and passing through the system as quickly as I'd hoped it would. It's perturbing that pie is confused on its own ingredients and that I know them so well. I tell the pie that I understand it's ingredients, and then give the pie freely away to someone else who might not like or understand the nuances of raspberry pie as much as I do. But of course, pie being an inanimate object, never realizes things like that, and is just happy to be eaten by anybody, not the person who knows and treasures its ingredients so much. But the beautiful housewife who recieves pie eventually, should "get" it, hopefully. However as the fate of the pie has been thus determined from the beginning, I find that my tastebuds still find it benignly pleasurable, but that it still is second to dark chocolate. Dark chocolate I love everything about. The taste, the smell, the complicity of the ingredients and preparation, the touch...everything about dark chocolate is orgasmic. And I'm getting some at the end of this week. Imported.
  ¶ 12:52 AM