“This house it has its politics, that’s my room, and that’s my sister”

Papa Sharp says:
Every night my sister comes home from work in her friend, D’s, car (which my sister bought for her while her own family starved).  They park outside the apartment building and speak to each other in solemn whispers and pray, upward to two hours.  They are equals in madness and stupidity – their only brilliance can be seen in justifying their own actions in some long outdated Hebrew passages.

The French Prince of Bel-Air says:
you need a cobra.
You need to get her into serpent handling
or Christian Science.
something potentially fatal.

Papa Sharp says:
Last week (I was not home, instead I was getting pleasantly drunk with my chums on spirits and weed), D. came into our home with Rose riding a high horse.  She spoke frantically, and was shaking with ferver, a real passion had possessed as she lectured my mother.  Her home, and her family’s home, were built on the foundation of the Word.

The French Prince of Bel-Air says:
seriously my mom’s away for three weeks, you can stay here, I’m a borderline alcoholic, there’s booze.
there’s always booze
even when there isn’t

Papa Sharp says:
Since it flowed through her, she could see that our home did not have the same structure, for if it did my mother would not be sleeping on the couch – there would be respect for her position of authority, and of course, more respect for the supreme authority, His authority.  In a way similar to one of her idols (the beloved Martin Luther, one and the same) she listed off our family’s sins.
My mother sat, rather still, and asked Diann as she reached her pontificating climax if she was finished, because she was tired and had to work the next day.
D. left, and my sister carried her four Bibles into her room (after making herself a rather large midnight snack) where she spent the night presumably praying that we would somehow be redeemed against all odds.
I don’t know if I have mentioned this before, but when I was 13 I was beaten rather severely by two guys in middle-school, tearing my ACL tendon in my leg.  This caused a bit of a chain reaction in my body, being unable to walk upright I limped to offset the weight.  How I walked caused the discs in my lower back to rub together, effectively crippling me for two years.
Because I’m a badass motherfucker, I let that motivate me.  I spent a lot of time reading and training myself physically, so I could develop the muscle in my back to hold me into position and lose the weight I’d put on because of my injury (and a bit that I’d had before), and in no time at all (two years of eternity) I could walk, skip and run as gayly as a child high on psychedelic mushrooms.This has, however, had one lasting impression.  If I don’t regularly sleep on a good bed, I start to experience lower-back pressure and white shooting pains.

The French Prince of Bel-Air says:
So that’s why you have the bed.

Papa Sharp says:
Now, I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, my mother moved in with me when I moved to Kitchener.  We have a really good, healthy household where we give each other space, joke, drink, and share books.  We treat each other very much as adults, each taking a portion of the work to keep it maintained and never argue.

The French Prince of Bel-Air says:
That’s not very Christian of you Sharp.

Papa Sharp says:
When my sister went mad, my mom couldn’t bare seeing her completely incapable and on her own, so we moved into a larger place to accommodate Rose.  Rose slept on the couch for about a month, before she wanted to share mom’s bed.  Mom found Marie’s sleeping habits (eating in bed, staying up weird hours, and blanket hogging) difficult to live with so she moved out onto the couch.

The French Prince of Bel-Air says:
those jokes better be about faggots, that drink better be decaffinated, those books better be the bible, your mother shouldn’t do any of the work, her job is to stone you.

Papa Sharp says:
In this fashion, my sister effectively commandeered my mother’s room.  Since I live odd hours, I’ve opted to share my bed with my mother.  She has it until around 3 or 4 am, when I get tired and turn in.
Rose doesn’t do shit all in the house.  She works and gives all of her money to D. and the church.  Granted, she buys her own food (which we can’t eat), but she also eats ours.  She’s moody, preachy, and disrespectful of us most of the time.
And somehow D. finds it in her heart to enlighten our household, with the highest hopes that we will follow their shining examples.
Typical.
I mention this because I see them out the window of our basement apartment, sitting in the red car that Rose bought D., and they look very solemn and religious, and it pisses me off. I closed the curtains.