The annoying bull I call Dad has left on a biz trip and has requested for Ernest to bring his car for a polish while he’s gone.

“Huh?”

I raised my brow when my Mum told me. Just a few moments earlier, she was saying how my dad refused to let my brother practise parking with the car. Days ago, he was saying Ernest might not get the hang of driving such a big arsed car. And I thought I’m the one with the mood swings. Guess it’s genetic.

So after weeks of being seen zipping around in my aunt’s Toyota, he is now driving the “mercs-guar” as my dad likes to call his Sonata, while Ernest simply refers to it as “uncle” car.

Why am I not surprised if he’s gonna end up driving my uncle’s car soon? He will probably end up driving every single car available in the family…

I think I still prefer the Toyota. Though I might change my mind when the dad finally gets the Mercs or Lexus. Hohoho. Though it wouldn’t make much difference, I can’t drive! And I don’t intend to get my licence yet despite family’s many attempts at cajoling me.

So anyway, the dad’s crazy… who knows what he’ll come up with next?

And speaking of crazy, I know I’m losing it. I’m falling to pieces.

Depressed and temperamental, I’m trying my best to steer clear of anti-depressants/relaxants. I’m also trying my darnest not to hit the bottles. The absolut vanilla is too tantalising sitting atop the table, subliminally seducing me… add coke and a couple of Cartier cigs to the equation and it’ll be a blissful escape!

I. Must. Resist.