Billy's not sure how one weekend a month can be such a fucking long time. It wasn't so bad when she was younger, but he's got no idea what the fuck to do with this teenager who shows up at his apartment in her stupid pseudo-punk fashion she bought at the mall. He counts cigarettes before she comes and after she leaves, but at least he hasn't had to lock up the booze from her yet. And she has pretty good taste in the albums she goes through from his record collection.
He draws the line when she brings the poster over. "You're not hanging that in my house," Billy says. He didn't even know they sold those. He wonders who's getting the money for it. Billy certainly hasn't seen any.
"It's my room," she says, pouting like a little kid. She wants to hang it over her bed - it'd be like Joe was watching her sleep, watching Billy's kid in her nighty every night. It's sick.
"It's my room. All of the rooms are my rooms," Billy says, and he rips the poster out of her hands and tears it in two.
"You're an asshole," she says, glaring at him, but it's not like Billy hasn't heard that plenty of times before.
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15/5/12 17:33 (UTC)He draws the line when she brings the poster over. "You're not hanging that in my house," Billy says. He didn't even know they sold those. He wonders who's getting the money for it. Billy certainly hasn't seen any.
"It's my room," she says, pouting like a little kid. She wants to hang it over her bed - it'd be like Joe was watching her sleep, watching Billy's kid in her nighty every night. It's sick.
"It's my room. All of the rooms are my rooms," Billy says, and he rips the poster out of her hands and tears it in two.
"You're an asshole," she says, glaring at him, but it's not like Billy hasn't heard that plenty of times before.