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Description
This is the part where we creep into a cheap motel room, in a dump called The Sea Lion, and we quickly scatter clear plastic cups (the kind that break when you chew on the sides) full of cheap wine, Sherry's I believe it was, and adjust the volume to the TV a notch above ear splitting. Also before we are finished we must toss the pillows to both double beds across the tiny room and begin the process of laying children- ranging from three to sixteen (myself)- and focus in on slightly overwieght balding step-father who is beyond being absorbed into the 2003 Poker Championship.
  Now press play and instantly he begins to scream, not at the kids who are jumping all of each other and beginning to throw punches and random kicks anywhere they can, but at the fact that Joe Smoe just went all in with nothing more than an eight of hearts and a three of spades. He has nothing and my step-father is outraged. "How the hell could he just throw it all away like that. We are talking about two million in cash. What the hell, I could do a better job than that idiot." This is a rather new occurence, although poker has always been an obsession of his, but the league only makes ESPN 2 once a year.
  Beyond all this, to suck you even farther into my life we will temporarily press mute on the family and place a crumbling pair of headphones on our heads and switch the CD player to number four- Backdrifts by Radiohead. Thom Yorke slowly begins to whine over a mellow guitar and the mood is set.
  Over the last couple of weeks (maybe it is months, but I could hardly care), Radiohead has become my life. While my family wails over white trash utopias- last week my mother actually screamed in relief when she won six dollars at the local Bingo Center- I have become obsessed with the notion that there are others out in the world like me. Lonely, miserable, and trapped. I guess you could call me the typical teenager with the anti-typical life.
  Reality is back before it has left me. My mom, half-naked and wrapped in a towel- walks out of the bathroom and begins the bitching. The more water drips from her stringy orange hair, the deeper the attacks get. They begin as they always do. "How the hell are we going to make rent this week." That is right. We don't play the monthly game of house. We play a more desperate game of motel. Every Friday serves as the shitty time of our lives. The whole family is forced to scrap together money for the $195 rent.
  The bitching about rent is left behind quickly when my mother looks up and realizes for the first time today that the room is absolutely trashed. Just like yesterday, Monday, Sunday, ext., ext.. Why she notices only once in a while I would never know, but when she did notice it was hell on earth. Throwing her wet hair around the room, she begins by dumping our bags of clothes out on the floor. "If you are going to be slobs, you are going to have to clean from the beginning." That was her philosophy and I believe it is to this day. So we watch her dump plastic bags full of our clothes all of the littered floor and the real fight would just begin.

Description
This is the part where we creep into a cheap motel room, in a dump called The Sea Lion, and we quickly scatter clear plastic cups (the kind that break when you chew on the sides) full of cheap wine, Sherry's I believe it was, and adjust the volume to the TV a notch above ear splitting. Also before we are finished we must toss the pillows to both double beds across the tiny room and begin the process of laying children- ranging from three to sixteen (myself)- and focus in on slightly overwieght balding step-father who is beyond being absorbed into the 2003 Poker Championship.
  Now press play and instantly he begins to scream, not at the kids who are jumping all of each other and beginning to throw punches and random kicks anywhere they can, but at the fact that Joe Smoe just went all in with nothing more than an eight of hearts and a three of spades. He has nothing and my step-father is outraged. "How the hell could he just throw it all away like that. We are talking about two million in cash. What the hell, I could do a better job than that idiot." This is a rather new occurence, although poker has always been an obsession of his, but the league only makes ESPN 2 once a year.
  Beyond all this, to suck you even farther into my life we will temporarily press mute on the family and place a crumbling pair of headphones on our heads and switch the CD player to number four- Backdrifts by Radiohead. Thom Yorke slowly begins to whine over a mellow guitar and the mood is set.
  Over the last couple of weeks (maybe it is months, but I could hardly care), Radiohead has become my life. While my family wails over white trash utopias- last week my mother actually screamed in relief when she won six dollars at the local Bingo Center- I have become obsessed with the notion that there are others out in the world like me. Lonely, miserable, and trapped. I guess you could call me the typical teenager with the anti-typical life.
  Reality is back before it has left me. My mom, half-naked and wrapped in a towel- walks out of the bathroom and begins the bitching. The more water drips from her stringy orange hair, the deeper the attacks get. They begin as they always do. "How the hell are we going to make rent this week." That is right. We don't play the monthly game of house. We play a more desperate game of motel. Every Friday serves as the shitty time of our lives. The whole family is forced to scrap together money for the $195 rent.
  The bitching about rent is left behind quickly when my mother looks up and realizes for the first time today that the room is absolutely trashed. Just like yesterday, Monday, Sunday, ext., ext.. Why she notices only once in a while I would never know, but when she did notice it was hell on earth. Throwing her wet hair around the room, she begins by dumping our bags of clothes out on the floor. "If you are going to be slobs, you are going to have to clean from the beginning." That was her philosophy and I believe it is to this day. So we watch her dump plastic bags full of our clothes all of the littered floor and the real fight would just begin.