I wish...I wish...

She: When he dies, will any one of you miss him at all?

I: No. I guess we'll be sad for a while. But no, we won't miss him.

Striking the lottery should be a happy affair. Not in my family -- not when HE is the one who strikes the lottery. Because it becomes his ticket to more bad behaviour.

The truth is, when I say he's an alcoholic, I don't mean he just drinks. He drinks, and has to drink, compulsively and excessively. Yes, it's a problem. To be more precise, it's OUR problem.

When we came home tonight, he went straight for the dog, and having ensured that he had the audience, whacked her with orchestrated ferocity. All to display his displeasure with us. I wanted to hit him too. My sister stared at him with such hatred and took the dog away into her room. After that, having gotten our attention, he went to bed. I pity mum who shares a bed with him -- at least we could return to the sanctity of our own bedrooms. Oh, no...it's not that he would hit her. He doesn't have the balls to. And that's why he takes it out on a defenceless little animal.

We had expected something like this -- he was already drunk when he babbled into my mother's handphone earlier.

My father is the dirty family secret that you wish you could stash away in the darkest corner of the closet when you have visitors, or attend a social event. I often pray that he would die before my mum does. Nobody wants to be saddled with him as the single surviving parent.

One of the dog's eyes has a bright red rim. I would not want to come home one day to find that she's gone blind or limp. Because then, I swear...I will...