Pus is still draining from my knee. It's an attractive yellow color. I feel sort of heartbroken. I always use words like "sort of" because I like hedging a lot. It seems inappropriate to say totally and completely heartbroken, that I really don't know how to deal with Christmas without my house, without my dog, without a real Christmas tree, that I keep crying over a stupid holiday. The one and only time I went over to my mom's duplex I just felt this festering and couldn't bring myself to talk or look at anything because they were all the same things, just in the wrong place and it seemed so terribly wrong. My brother kept chastising me, suggested that maybe he lead the conversation. My mom kept saying things like "When you were going to live here" and I kept replying "I was never going to live here" and then she said "I mean before Austria" even though before Austria she claimed that my house would still be there when I returned. I don't want to go buy a holiday French silk pie that I don't want to eat, I don't want to open presents from my mother that I don't want, I want to sit with my dad and drink wine and not feel horrible. I am grateful at least, that I have one parent that I like pretty much all the time and prefer seeing over most people in the world.