I am a bad person. My mother got mad at me because I’m a crybaby. Yes I am. Or maybe an angrybaby. But what can I do? It’s already embedded in my personality; I can’t change it that easily. And who do you think molded that personality? They. She.
A long day so far, I and my father attended the christening—or, the restaurant portion thereof—of a relative. What’s their relation to me, I don’t even know. But at least we got the foodz. I got the chance to visit the family (!) chemical plant. I got to see empty aerators with bubblers in the bottom. Sedimentation tanks, oil extractors, all that shit. I’m like a little kid wandering around the whole place.