Left the sprinkler on to drink coffee at Barnes & Noble. Wanted to get back before my parents did because I didn't think it was going to rain. It didn't, but they beat me back home.
Tried to say hi to My Fucking Father; didn't reply. Grandmother said he wanted to talk to me. He finally had the nerve to intercept me as I was passing through the dining room. You've got to water the brown grass on the other side else it'll die, he said, "OK?". Well it's your fucking sprinkler that you bought, why the fuck did you buy it if didn't do the job for you. But I didn't say that. I say "OK" in that smartass way knowing that my response won't be reciprocated sincerely, like it hasn't all my life. And it didn't this time; he just glowered at me as he turned his head away. I fuckin' hate that. I didn't mean to waste your water, neglect the lawn and act like I don't care, but you think the worst of me. Because of that, I think the worst of you. Goddamn, just thinking about that makes my fucking blood boil all over again.
But then he actually started talking to me like I deserved a second chance (though I won't forget how you treated me -- fuck you, Father), asking me to turn off a pot while he was getting stuff at Menards. Even weirder: Mother actually had dinner with us again! It's the first time in almost a month. Didn't talk besides asking me if I wanted to finish a dish, but it's like she wasn't pissed at me anymore and everything was back to normal. And I felt ... kind of sad. I shouldn't be saying this, but all these days of My Fucking Mother not talking to me, not even climbing up to the top level of her own house, and My Fucking Father cooking dinner for us, not even putting his bowl down to eat and cleaning the dishes quickly before retreating downstairs himself freed me of all the disappointed looks, the painful comments and the veiled threats that I had to endure just so we could act like a normal family. I had gotten used to not talking to the people I live with very quickly; in fact, I kind of liked it. Especially with the shit My Fucking Father pulled on me tonight, I kind of miss those days of them totally ignoring me.
He had me look at an e-mail; as usual, it's more grunt work, calling for something he should be doing himself because he has all the information and he knows enough English to get by. I felt confident enough to barge into the master bedroom again and tell him about the e-mail. (She talked to him, another thaw; this past month she just stared at the TV like I wasn't even there.) I also feel justified in making a lot of noise tonight and leaving the bowl I used for salsa in the sink. Fuck 'em.
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