Dear Diary,
Today was one of those days where you realize your family has officially gone off the deep end—and somehow dragged you along for the ride. Let me paint the picture for you: my mother, Nancy, was throwing socks, erasers, and toaster-sized tantrums like they were confetti at a deranged parade. And Joel? Oh, bless his heart—he tried to play peacekeeper, but even Switzerland would’ve surrendered to this circus.

It all started with a phone call. Mom told Christy she took pills, Christy freaked out, Joel called me, and then, like a game of dysfunctional dominoes, I had to call the police. And guess who got blamed for all of it? That’s right—yours truly. I mean, obviously, it’s my witchy control freak spirit making everything worse. (Thanks for that diagnosis, Mom. Should I book my broomstick for therapy now?)

Then came the pièce de résistance: Mom, leaning over the balcony like a Shakespearean villain, calling me names that made “witch” sound like a compliment. She capped it off by flinging a trashcan down the stairs, declaring she’d be “out of my house as soon as she was able.” Bold of her to assume she hadn’t already mentally moved out years ago.

The police? Not much help either. Apparently, not dying is a loophole in the whole “cry for help” narrative. No harm, no foul, right? Meanwhile, Joel and I sat on the porch having that classic sibling bonding moment: “What are we even doing with our lives?”

Then Seth sauntered in, acting like he had all the answers. Spoiler alert: he didn’t. And just like that, the soap opera continues.

Honestly, Diary, I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or start scripting this for Netflix. I’ll let you know when I decide.

Yours in chaos and caffeine,

Bri

This diary post was written by fictional character Brianne Brigg
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