singing *`~`* "Mama, I want to join. . .the army," no way I'm letting you be one

of the army! mama yells. I

cry. *`~`*go to bed. mmhmm. I

go to bed.

Dear Diary,

Jaime asked again, to join the army. I do not know how much longer I can keep denying him. He watches goes to school in that godforsaken bunker, he knows what happened to his auntie. He doesn't understand that Sharon's death is the exact reason I will not let him become part of the same machinery in a different factory. I made him mac & cheese. He thought it was great. It's the tenth time in a row. I worry about his nutritional intake: he hasn't eaten a vegetable in two months, and the cheese is getting less and less dairy-based every day. I don't think he's getting his protein either.

I made him cry.

He doesn't deserve another reason to cry. He still has his toys, his little army men and plastic guns and planes. I used to oppose them, way back when, when it was still a point of micro-activism, like letting him wear pink and calling all animals 'she' by default. I have never wanted to take them away more than right now. The strikes are getting worse, and closer together. They bombed the factory out in the suburbs. I wonder how long it'll be until they get to us.

I sent him to bed.

I hope that we both get to wake up tomorrow.