All I wanted to do was go home and have some cake. But as soon as I enter last night I see Father trodding upstairs with whole milk. He asks me for a favor downstairs, and all of a sudden I'm talking to him -- actually, he's talking at me -- for 45 goddamn minutes. Does he realize that he's talking to me about his paintings and his real estate properties again? That he's saying these goddamn things to me again? I'm not saying they're not important; I'm saying that I'm tired and I don't think I need to hear information you vomited toward me already, especially information I can't do anything with.
He wore me out. I went to bad after that.
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