So my sister e-mails me about the clothes I gave to her friend. There's one more, and apparently we had it, still. Which means My Fucking Father starts looking around trying to figure out where this mysterious article is. That means he went into my sister's room, where all my stuff was (even though he was the asshole who put it there). "Clean this up!" he said, again, to which I lie to him, again, "I'm working on it."

My sis led me into another confrontation with My Fucking Father again, but fuck it, it's not as if she planned on doing this. Besdies, I'm pissed at him because I can't find my goddamn tax docments. I knew where they were before My Fucking Father moved all my shit out of the house, and now I can't find it. Goddamn him...

Instead of cleaning up my stuff, I'm at a Borders at a mall. I imagine him coming home and seeing nobody here and all these papers lying around and getting pissed off. What are you going to do, Father? Shouldn't I be mad for making me get an extension on my taxes? Asshole.