this house has a half-attic, or maybe you could call it a partial attic. it's only a fraction of one, anyway. i went up there for the first time in a while about an hour ago and had to chuckle to myself that i'd always wanted a room up there. we didn't use it for years but had to begin due to storage overflow fairly recently. the ceiling is low and only some parts of the floor can be walked on. patty was warning me, don't step on the insulation, you'll fall right through.

this momentarily terrified me, and the box i sought seemed so far out of reach across such a perilous divide that i just came back down. i'm thinking about it now, how the attic is directly above my room, and what would happen if it should ever fall. i've had questions in my mind about the structural integrity of the house ever since i was very young and i found out that my father (with some help) was actually the one that built it. the rooms are somewhat oddly shaped and there's a knocking noise inside the walls (probably just a normal house noise, as if i'd be able to tell) that used to keep me up at night with worry and some vague unrelated and wholly unfounded fear that people were coming for us, sneaking across the front lawn. it's always something.

anyway, to make a metaphor of the structural integrity thing, for both family and nation, my father came home from work shortly after the minor attic escapade and proceeded into his usual nativist fuckery, unloading on those "illegals" as he is wont to do.

seriously, a lot of your precious white people don't even know the national anthem in english.

fitting that the immigration topic was also discussed at length during world civ class today - there's really no escaping it. it's going to keep coming up. my father. i really can't stand the man sometimes. i didn't even want to argue with him this time, i just left.

i'm ashamed knowing that i was just like him only a few years ago. what the fuck, me? what the fuck?