Tomorrow is my brother’s memorial. I’ll leave at 6:45 a.m. to make it in time for the 10:00 a.m. service. By 11:00 a.m. it will be over. Hopefully my brother-in-law won’t show. If he does, I shall ignore him. If he comes near me, I shall tell him to back off. But I shalt not call him a fucking pedophile. At least not where anyone can hear me. Maybe he’ll be struck dead when he enters the Catholic church where the service will be held. I’ve often thought these past few days, too bad it wasn’t him. Lest you think my ire is a little over-the-top, know that he is indeed a pedophile and he molested my niece. He should be in prison getting up close and personal with his cellmate; not attending my dead brother’s memorial service. But I don’t want to think about him. I want to focus on my brother, which is what tomorrow is all about. Not the pedophile. But if he touches me, I’ll hock up a lugie and spit on him.
Odd how the thought of going home turns me into a child.
In other news, I got a wireless keyboard for my iPad. This thing is terrific. Now I can blog to my heart’s desire while in Italy. I’ll try to refrain from posting too much food porn. And wine porn.
Holy hell, am I full of anxiety about tomorrow. I’d be feeling less anxious if I knew the brother-in-law won’t be there. Good thing I broke it off with Mack. I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t have controlled himself should he cross paths with the prick. I find that a bit ironic.
Rather than ruminating on my three-hour-drive, I’m going to listen to my Italian language CDs. I still haven’t learned bathroom. Or water. Oh wait, it’s Pellegrino.