I took a typing class in high school so I'd have something to fall back on

At least she had the presence of mind to shut the door. The shower was on too, but the walls are only slightly thicker than shoeboxes in this place and as we all know because I've said it before, I am a light sleeper. At first all I could hear was the shower, then the crying started then the wailing, gnashing of teeth, tormented souls in hell cries.
That's what I woke up to this morning. Then she was fine. Until the afternoon when the torment set in again. She all but begged me to call semi-strangers in an attempt to solve her problem. I don't have any of these people's numbers or I would-just to eliminate the possibility of waking up to the same thing tomorrow. Not because I think it is even kind of alright. Because I don't,not that I have a problem with the action, but because I have a problem with excuses. And it is only an excuse.
We drink a lot. Well, I drink a lot an she can't hold her liquor so she goes to bed early. Then I sit in the dark, mealting in the heat, putzing around on the computer. Basically what I do when she's awake, but I feel less guilty about it when no one else is around.
Today I was doing my internship, typing away transcribing an interview. The person for whom I am working came over and patted me on the back, "Is it getting any less miserable?" he asked. "You sound like you're making amazing progress."
"Oh, I probably am, I'm really good at this. But that doesn't change the fact that I possess a skill that I no only do not appreciate I despise." He didn't really understand. But then, who would? Most people probably don't have extra talents.
Lucky me.
I gave the sister an insight into my mind today-let her read one of my witty, but nevertheless cheap and lame real person fan fictions. (That's the tricky and somewhat ethically questionable area of fan fiction written about real people. It's usually very very filthy.) Something I write because it amuses me, low culture, garbage and things that would make John Waters blush are a hobby of mine. And I am fascinated by the culture. It's a fun excercise in writing too-write two people so that they remain realistic, but are completely different entities. IT's not quality writing and no one sane should ever claim it as such-but I enjoy it and thought it would give her a chuckle into my sick mind. She looked more disturbed than anything. It wasn't porn or even close-there was discussion of sex, descriptions of sex, even a brief and meant for comedic effect man on man kiss-but the story had about as much actual sex in it as my life. She still looked downright upset, as if I'd shown her my favorite Furry art. I thought it was pretty tame-but what do I know? I can laugh at sex, but have little humor for drug addiction (and they don't make me humorous, either) perhaps she's the opposite.
What do I know?
My parents seem to have bought a warehouse in Barbertucky, Ohio. It's something like 6000 sq ft. That is, I think, rather a lot. They're going to open a business on the first floor because, legally, they have to, and on the secnd floor they're putting lofts. They'll live there and maybe rent the other space out to family or friends that have recently decided life isn't worth living so they might as well live in Barberton. I kid. I kid. It's a lovely and affordable location. It should keep them amused for years to come, and provide me with an endles stream of stories.