The only experience that I've found to closely resemble the ordeal of watching Requiem For A Dream (I have the poster now, so I have to reference it) is the phone conversation I just had with my parents, who I will now quite unintentionally demonize.

I'll do a good, less obviously cathartic update later tonight, if this peevish rant isn't your thing. It really isn't, but I'm not one to destroy anything I've written.

I begin, of course, by telling my loving relations about the ticket I got on the way back from Hamline. One more, says my dad, and I will lose [The Deathtrap]. My mom attempts to get the details, while he calmly repeats this mantra in the background. I cut him off everytime.

At this point I get angry at the "One more" threat, seeing as he's referring not just to the ticket, but to my 'accident'.

Begin Digression.

The accident, which I can't seem to find a reference to on my page, happened during Christmas break, when I fishtailed into the back right bumper of the car next to me while regaining control at an icy intersection, at no more than five mph.

We immediately pulled into the parking lot and examined our cars. I don't care about The Deathtrap, so we both looked at her car. There was no damage, we both agreed. I remember noting, when I looked at my back left bumper, that if anything, my van had conformed to their car, molding around the bumper of the other person's adamantine car.

My mom said the same thing, in her own words, when she looked. There was, we agreed, no foreign paint on the van. Now, she doesn't remember the results of our inspection, which later that day had impelled her to call the insurance agency to question the other girl's fraudulent insurance claim.

There is one accident on my record, this one and only mistake, that I'd completely forgotten.

Digression complete.

That ugly bit behind us, we went on to discuss my grades from last term, especially my Calc grade. There was another section here I'll soon repress, though less heated than the first argument. Around this point The D.J emerged from his room (I was talking in the hallway, so as not to disturb Greg) and asked me to stop my loud "flailing".

We moved on to the usual questions, which I answered grudgingly. No, Things were different back then dad, No, Yes, and No, not yet. In that order.

My dad is at heart a great guy, with my best interests in mind; my main gripe has always been that he's so predictable. If I didn't know what he was going to say, there'd still be a problem, but I wouldn't have to cringe everytime he launched into one of his typical lines of questioning. I'd be interested or surprised or something.

The questions buzzed around in my head, spawning more depressing questions, and combined with the verbal beating I received earlier, made me laconic and depressed. But now I've done some writing, and Manney's antics cheered me up a bit too, and now I have the radio show, so catharsis will be achieved. You can tell I talked about the Greeks in class today; catharsis doesn't come up, otherwise.