morning

I am again reduced to tears.

They are fighting again downstairs; and I am at fault, or rather, my breakfast. Hell, I would've given it anyway. But they have to make it into some grand specatacle complete with shouting matches and fireworks.

Like all fights, it starts out small. Then anger consumes you, swallows you until all you are is anger and the real reason is now swallowed under tears or shouting.

I wish they'd stop.