Trinity (Chapter 1)

She told me to call her Sonya. I’ll tell you what though, the shit she’s put me through in the last few months, I can think of several more appropriate names. “Sonya” is my counselor, the same bitch who is trying to convince my parents that divorce can be a “positive and productive part of life.” I really don’t think she knows what she is on about, 20 bucks the certificate on her wall was fashioned at Officeworks. It isn’t like I hate her though; I just don’t believe a thing that comes out from between her “I can’t apply my own Coral Colours face paint” lips. One of these ill informed statements is that my parents divorce is not my fault. I can’t see how she figured that one out, seeing as the first argument they have ever had, was because Dad was convinced that because Mum is a pro soccer player, that she turned his precious little girl gay.

Yea, you heard me right, him and Mum were never the same after they busted me kissing this girl from my church. It isn’t like soccer is all that holy in itself, although mum insists that she has spoken with the church and they are fine with it. It would be better if it went back to the old days, the Roman Empire or whenever it was, when the losing team lost their heads so the winning team could play a little independent football. Then I could put mum and dad on opposite teams and maybe get some peace and quiet for once.

So yea, like I said, I’m gay. Dad thinks its Mum’s fault; Mum thinks its Dad’s fault. Trust me, her justification is even better. She says, that the sips of beer dad gave me when I was a kid, has turned me in to a yeast loving butch dyke. I don’t think she thought that remark through strongly enough; it made me sound like I have a really sick thrush fetish. So this stupid argument has rocked back and forward until the flint finally made an irreparable mark in my parents’ vows.

So back to Dr. “imastupidcuntface” Sonya, you can see how when she says that it isn’t my fault, I tend to doubt her judgment a little. I thought about trying to feel her up, so maybe she would kick me out of her office permanently, and if I’m lucky, so my parents would ceremoniously disown me, complete with billboard, loudspeaker and disgraced expressions on big screen, but I don’t have that strong a stomach and vomiting isn’t one of my favorite pastimes. To add to this, I wouldn’t want to sticky on Sonya’s shoes because then she would have to live up to her reputation and gracefully roll out of the door.

I think I should probably go, but will update again soon. By the sounds of it, Mum just decided that my necklace “which is a crucifix, just for the record,” has been used in some sort of witchy ritual just because there is a speck of dried blood on it. (I knocked the scab of a fucking pimple!) Paranoid anyone?