So I found out this morning that my mother is systematically killing my sisters with stress.

I got a call from my older sister, who I think is thirty or thirty-one, and she told me that my mother had told our aunt, right in front of her, that she thought my sister was a 'wuss' who wouldn't ever help us out.

Hm.

Well, ma, how about you look at the fact that, if we weren't using her SUV because you can't make a car payment, you wouldn't be able to make a house payment or buy food because I wouldn't be able to get to work and do those things for you.

How about you look at the fact that she tried to put you through school and you dropped out.

How about you look at the fact that she's your daughter no matter what she does and you're a selfish ***** who does nothing but wallow in self-pity and make snide remarks at the people who are giving up their lives to help you?

So this morning the first thing I heard was that my older sister was admitted to the hospital because of chest pains.

I thought about calling in to work, but instead I called her, and she told me they'd let her go, given her a couple of pills for anxiety and said her heart was, thank God, fine.

I went to work.

I called my younger sister because I left a customer's order at home and needed the number, and she was, as usual, asleep.

She sleeps all day to avoid having to live in this house.

She's also got killer OCD, permanent bags under her eyes and a frame that weighs ninety pounds soaking wet.

She's a real-life Cinderella. We can't have a conversation on Google Talk from across the house because she's up and down at all hours of the day and night doing whatever mom asks.

She's up at three a.m. doing laundry.

If she passes my kid off to me, mom asks if the little ***** is on vacation.

Me, I'm the Golden Child, I don't have to do anything, I don't get sniped at.

Why?

I bring home money. I'm the sole support of the household. If you're earning a living and giving it to her, then you're okay in her book. You're a human being as long as you're a money-maker.

And the guilt of that is what's going to kill me.

I took an apartment listing book from the bank today.

I don't know if I could abandon my parents to their own self-destructive personalities and the very real possibility of being homeless, but I feel like if I don't do something my daughter will grow up as f***** up as my sisters.

I keep my own dysfunction under wraps for the sake of everyone else.

I haven't eaten anything in three days. I had a beer at lunch today, sitting in a rather depressing and over-priced barbeque place with my Coors and listening to my iPod while people tried to figure out whether the skeleton in the booth across the way was male or female.

I smoke a pack and a half a day, I don't sleep, I'm always angry but I act like the nicest person you could ever hope to meet.

People say it's amazing that I turned out 'normal'.

Newsflash. I haven't. I'm just a Hollywood-caliber actor.

I'm thinking about taking Cinderella for her first beer tomorrow, since our plans for her twenty-first were canceled due to lack of gas money.

My plans for escape are ruined by the fact that I can't get the money together for transportation when I'm so busy trying to keep our heads above water.

I could call us a cab and we could ***** about our problems over a beer.

I think that's about as good as life is apt to get these days.