My continuing nagging feeling that I need to get up every Thursday morning has been justified again this morning.

I went to bed early, without dinkin' around the Internet, for many reasons: I was tired; I wanted My Father to know I went to bed at a conforming hour to the rest of the world, as a gesture of goodwill; and I wanted to make sure he didn't throw any of my shit away in the morning, which is recycling day.  I needed to make absolutely sure I had enough rest so I don't sleep through the 10 o'clock hour, which is around the time the city comes in and recycles are cans and papers.

I should, in a way, thank My Father for waking me up by his rustling the paper bags he apparently gathered in his hands and slamming the door.  There were two paper bags when I came out to see the curb.  When I investigated, one of them was sundry things from downstairs, his stuff.  The other ... the other contained my Entertainment Weeklys that I put down in the basement a long time ago.  These aren't just sentimental to me; these are the earliest editions of EW I have when My Fucking Father made my subscribe to it back in 1990.  The earliest copy of I have: Issue #10, featuring the TV dramatization of Jimm and Tammy Faye Bakker.

And My Fucking Father wanted to throw them away.  He has no respect for my stuff.  On the basement walls he hangs paintings he thinks are valuable but aren't worth shit.  They're painted by guys whose memories have already been erased from the dust of the Earth.  Meanwhile, in its own humble corner of the basement sat my EW's, hurting no one.  But no, My Fucking Father wants clutter -- that's not his -- out of his sight, no matter how benign a stack of magazines are.  So glad I rescued the tangible evidence of my past before the recyclers came around.  They're in my closet now, safe from the clutches of My Fucking Father.

More and more I believe buying a storage space was the right thing to do.  So damn infuriating. ...