November 29, 1994

Things are so tense here. Mom and Dad are still fighting, and James is still stoned. You wouldn’t know who these people are, would you Diary? Mom, Dad and James. You wouldn’t know anything about me, would you?

The only reason I’m even writing in this stupid book now is because my therapist, Claire, is making me. I’m not crazy or anything, I don’t go to a therapist for that. Mom and Dad decided our family needed counseling or some nonsense like that, so now we all go see Claire every Thursday.

James usually never comes, which means I have to make fun of Claire all by myself. She’s this middle aged woman who’s tiny. Her face just disappears because she wears such brightly colored clothing.

Her office is just as bright. It’s a horrible bright red, and she has some leather chairs that squeak every time you move, and by the time your half hour’s up, you just want to slash that leather with a knife.