My life is complete and utter hell...

So my mom decided to get a boyfriend. His name is Bruce and she met him at a church barbeque. I didn't know it was possible, but the sonofabitch is fatter than she is and sweats even more. He's so fucking huge he has to carry around an oxygen tank (you know, the one with the tube that fits in your nostrils) and walking up the four steps to get on our porch makes him wheeze.

Despite this, he thinks he's a badass. He's always talking about how he's this poor Vietnam vet who was in like the Special Forces and "can't talk about the things he did over there" (read: I don't want to make up shit that can be verified to be untrue.) The bastard is 46 years old. From my understanding, we left Vietnam in 1975, meaning we'd been out of Vietnam for a year by the time he was graduating high school. I want to kick him in his gut every time he starts whining about Jane Fonda.

The worst is when they start fucking. I don't know how people as fat as that can fuck (both their bellies hang way over their genitalia) much less go into cardiac arrest during it. The walls in this shitty house are so thin I can hear every "moo" they make. It makes me want to vomit.

I called a lawyer to see if I could get exemption from the class-action suit against the jail nullified because of how they botched my plastic surgery. "Well, I read over the agreement and it didn't specify which part of your derma they would use for the surgery." He said there might be a possibility of suing the doctor himself for malpractice, but the lawyer wanted a five-hundred dollar retainer for that. I told him to get lost. I have not a single dime to my name except what I can steal out of my mother's purse when she's drunk.

I think what really happened is that the late Chad Van Hertzwelder's daddy slipped some cash to the plastic surgeon. I'll get that fucker for that someday.

I tried to grow a beard to cover up the COCKSOCKET tattoo, but unfortunately my ass wasn't hairy enough and had no hair follicles. When I want to leave the house now, I just put a huge Band-Aid over that part of my jaw.

My probation officer doesn't fuck with me much. He's got about sixty other files he has to deal with, so we only meet with each other for about ten minutes each week. He has been asking more and more about getting a job, and tell him I'm working on it.

And it's hard work. No place wants to hire and ex-con. I don't see why you've got to have a squeaky clean legal record to shovel shit in a ditch, but apparently you do.
Anyway, my whining is belated, since I actually did get a job last week and will be starting tomorrow. I'm now officially the night clerk at the Lazy U Motel, a shithole crack motel within walking distance from my house here.

It's owned by this Russian cat named Sergei, who interviewed me for about five minutes before telling me I had the job. It's kind of hard to take Sergei seriously. He drives around in this 87 Honda that has, get this, a spoiler bolted to the trunk. He's always wearing a white jumpsuit with a gold chain. Imagine someone with just a rudimentary understanding of English trying to speak nigger and that's what talking to Sergei is like.

Anyway, it's money. I'm gonna save as much of it as I can so I can move out of mom's place pronto. The other day, she called me into her bedroom where she was laying half dressed with Bruce, asking me to go buy a ten-piece bucket of chicken at Popeyes and bring it back to them to eat in bed.

I didn't get them the chicken. I ran out of there and didn't return until I could get the disgusting flashbacks of my childhood out of my head.