Now I Really Really Really Want To Fucking Kill My Fucking Father

You know, and I thought everything was going so well with us just before I left for my vacay. I was tipped by my Grandmother that My Fucking Father basically went into my room and rearranged everything. And sure enough, as soon as I went home and saw bags of my stuff there, I knew something was terribly, terribly wrong.

And I was right. My room was basically cleaned out of everything that I wanted in there, and My Fucking Father took the liberty of moving my bed, my desk, my TV, my radio, and all the other big stuff in a new place. The closet doors, which I keep open because I fucking want to, was cleared of my stuff. Half of my shirts were gone. Half of all my clothing wasn't in plain sight, which I want it to be. Later I looked in my chest, which has nine drawers; all clothing was in there, instead of the stashes of Entertainment Weeklys I kept there.

I want to murder My Fucking Father. Really, I do. He took advantage of my absence to invade my privacy and make things fall into an order that he likes. My feelings, nor the fact that I had absolutely everything the way I want it to be, be damned. And I certainly resent the fact that he used me and my things to indulge his weird goddamn habit of cleaning things. Now I don't know where in the hell my stuff is. And no, I shouldn't have to look for it because he moved it. Goddamn you, Father, I didn't fucking ask you to do this!!!

But what can I do? It goes beyond "his house, his rules." I really can't murder My Fucking Father, even though he deserves it, because I have no balls. And I hate the fact that he put some thought into the rearrangement: He filled the drawers up by category (pants, underwear, hats), not willy-nilly, and he even put nails in the wall to put up some my hat rack and a couple of fitness awards I got in high school. Does that make up for going through my shit? Fuck and no, and I'm going make damn sure he knows that. But what can I do under these circumstances, especially when, as I fear, he hasn't thrown away anything?

I have to get back at him the family way: passive-aggressiveness and emotional manipulation. I have to let him know I hate him for what he's done to me by not exactly telling him. I think I'll just leave all the papers and books and sentimental objects where he put them, because that's where he put them. I'll be missing more dinners. I won't help out with setting up the table. I'll sleep in late and not turn my phone on. Whenever he asks me to do something, I'll half-ass it, do it late, or not do it at all. I'll make noise late at night -- oh, he hates that. And I'll fucking ask him for money for school, then blow it on strippers and handjobs. Those are equivalents of pea-shooters, but they're the only weapons in my arsenal.

I really don't know why he can't just fucking let things be. I don't do drugs, I don't get into trouble, and I make no one pregnant. Why gives him the goddamn right to do this? And why the fuck does he think he needs to do this? Leave it alone. Leave me alone.

Revenge has to be mine. Really, man, stay out of my room!