Tonight was very stressful. I've come to believe that holding back tears can be one of the hardest things someone can do.

My mom finally told my dad that next weekend was the last weekend I was going to work for him. And this upset him. He was yelling at me throughout the entire time I was at the restaurant, in front of everyone. I think he stopped caring that we were in public, and that it might even make me more nervous. He told me that if I didn't come after next weekend, he would stop talking to me, and kick me out of the house when I'm eighteen.

However, this didn't really phase me much. I don't think my dad realizes that it's been maybe over ten years since I've actually tried to initiate a conversation with him. He's always the one that starts talking first. I suppose after his gambling problem and my memory of him being an awful, selfish person sunk into my head, and I never really considered him much of a father. He was telling me how hard he tries to be the best father he can be, but in his eyes, that just means making money. I don't think he understands that our family would be very happy if we were poor, and that we were just at peace with everything. He needs to calm down sometimes.

And after I was being yelled at, I was kind of sensitive, and whenever I'm "kind of sensitive", I always think about depressing things. I started thinking about my English teacher Mr. Rice and how he seems very happy, and how I want what he has. He teaches English and lives with his wife and sells honey for a living. He just seems very peaceful, and seems to have found what he wanted in life. I started to imagine myself listening to soft jazz music at a cabin by the lake, with Teresa and I talking about all sorts of things. And us always having a smile on our face. Which depressed me, because whenever I think about Teresa and my future together, I always start to get teary eyed.

And while thinking all of this, a guy around 20 or so walked in the restaurant with a big smile on his face. He was asian and very skinny and was wearing a shirt with a stick figure cowboy on it smoking a cigarette. And his name was Max. And whenever he comes in, he always seems very happy, and after placing his order, he always goes outside and smokes a cigarette. And I always think to myself that I want to be just like him when I'm older, and that maybe he went through the same thing I'm going through right now. And that he'd tell me to stick in there.

I will never be a realist. I think everyone should have hopes and dreams and things like that. And one night a while ago, Teresa asked me if I was only living because of the her. And I just started crying and didn't really reply, because I honestly didn't know why I was living. And it depressed me, but eventually I got over it. Maybe.

And after work I calmed down and had a cigarette, and vowed that I would only have a cigarette when I really needed one. And I went to the local book/music store and picked up this album by Thelonious Monk called "Criss-Cross". And I listened to it on the way home, and it was very nice.

And that's about it. I have to write an essay about rascism in the sixties now.

cya.

-george