Just realised that I derive comfort from things that seem to be more constant, than other, at least. Like I enjoy going onto the Internet, that's constant. Everyday on the school computer. My mental mother's hogging the laptop for her Pet Society. Then, reading. Books are something solid I can at least believe in. Calligraphy. Solid sense of smell of the ink and brushes and paper. Copying alchemical symbols from the web, even if they don't work and they're fictional.

I also realised I'm going home later and later every single day, to avoid meeting my mother. No matter what happens, she'll blow up like a fucking volcano, just about killing me. Only tennis and her beloved Pet Society gives me some brief respite. I try to get to bed before she comes up from her tennis.

If I leave something undone, around the house, homework wise, something...There'll be hell to pay.

God doesn't even answer.