Oh my fucking god, you can't come home from Vegas and relax, not even for one fucking night, Father? You wave hi to me at the airport, then for dinner you bitch at me for the weeds that are cropping up in the backyard? Not my fault the yard's in such shitty shape. But I weeded tonight. Happy, asshole?

And then I'm listening to my iPod while on your desktop, and when you came in I know you said something stupid, something that pissed you off even though there is no good goddamn reason to get pissed off about it, and you probably said it in that complaining, whiny tone you always have. I really should wring your neck for what I think you said, and I'm still fucking angry, but wouldn't it suck if what you said to me while I was listening to my iPod really wasn't something to cut me down. I'll give you a pass.

But thank you for letting me open the door from the basement to the garage after nightfall, just so I can make absolutely sure I closed the garage door. Last time I opened up the door from the basement to the garage, you fucking went nuts on me. I still don't get, but now I get it: You're goddamn crazy.

And now around midnight I go downstairs to grab a Sprite and you and Mother are in the computer room. You were pacing back and forth and watching TV in the dining room earlier in the evening. Is something wrong with you again? Why does everything have to be about you? Do you always need attention from us, you big baby?