#1
"One more time, Dad?" Penelope asked politely.

"No, your mother will be home any minute. Clean up the room, and throw that nasty thing away" Richard(we'll call him 'Dick')said.

Earlier she was screaming. Screaming for her father. Screaming because of her mother. The bitch never cared. All she ever did was work, and when she got home she would drink her juice. It ain't like a waitressing job is paying off the credit cards.
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Dad did it all. At the age of twenty-five he had successfully started his own contracting company, which is now the largest in New England. Thats what men do around here. Grow up in Woodvale playing division-four-high-school-football (the American version of course), and then they diddle around in college before finally dropping to work for their fathers contracting company.

My grandfather died when my dad was twelve. He didn't leave anything behind, besides the box of empties in the garage. There was no contracting company, so my father built his own. Dick did it better than anyone else.

I guess I have more in common with my father. You know? We both got that one derelict parent, who barely exists. More like friends than father and daughter. Friends with benefits.
Quote by ottoavist

i suppose there's a chance
i'm just a litte too shallow to consider
that maybe i've been a little more eager
each day to wake up and take a shower
brush my teeth and smile for the mirror