In 1989, the year I would turn 18 years old, my father left for work one morning with an extra set of suitcases, deciding that the business trip he was going on would last a lot longer than a 11 days. The last fight my parents had took place at my neighbor, The Callan's, back bedroom of their house. The fury errupted when my mother spilled birthday cake on my father's brand new houndstooth overcoat and all of the sudden, apparently, all of the guests at the party heard the argument go from cake spills to how much my father hated living under the same roof as a "deceitful, selfish pig of a woman". That was 10 months ago. I was not there to witness this, of course. I was never at home after the fighting had started. I spent every waking hour at my best friend Tuesday Martin's house (nicknamed Marty. Tuesday is a "hippy name". Post-Woodstock Syndrome of her parent's doing. No one ever calls her Tuesday unless it's the first day of school and a teacher hasn't been advised of the unofficial name change). Her parents are artists. They don't believe in arguing. Hell, they don't really believe in verbal communication at all. "The paintings speak for themselves," Mrs. Martin always says under a raspy, nicotene-indulged breath. My parents rely on verbal communication. That's what started the end, and now it's over. I do nothing at my mother's house except sleep and walk my Yellow Laborador, Monroe, every morning before school. My older sister Kelly whines constantly to me, saying "Ray, it's not right" to leave my mom at home by herself, because I'm the youngest child and without me she's "all alone". Kelly, being a 3rd-year communication's major at Maryland State University Baltimore just down the street, must not be learning much at school because she hasn't visited Mom since she moved out either. I, personally, wouldn't have it any other way. Kelly's the kind of girl to say that's she's going to meet you for lunch at noon on the bay near Kessler Beach, then doesn't show up because she's been distracted by an overpriced sundress in the window at Marshall Field's. She's selfish, and I, well... it's hard to explain in layman's terms, really. But I'll try real hard.