7:17 a.m. on 2001-11-15
The little kid next door who is spawned of satan

I keep wondering if the little kid who lives next door is getting wailed on by his parents. The screams are so blood curdling and chilling, it seems like the only likely explanation. When I was a little kid, I did some things I probably should've gotten cracked for, if my parents weren't as nice as they were. Of course, I think they believed I was mentally retarded. My father would often come home from work and find me walking around the living room with an empty can of paint on my head. It made the old man sad to see me like that-with his paint cans on my head. "Why do you keep empty paint cans around?" I'd ask. "Go watch a cartoon, and stop asking questions!" He'd say. "But we don't have a tv" It was true. It was broken at the time.

"Ok, take my car keys and go into the garage. Close the door and warm her up for me. I'll be down in an hour."

"Oh daddy! I'd probably choke to death."

"Probably isn't good enough." We'd have a good laugh. The old days. You miss them sometimes.

in the slammer - up for parole