Update: My Fucking Father's still not talking to me. Maybe the snow I left for him at his driver's-side door sent a message.
I actually beat them home. They came back later than usual, so I actually started clearing the rest of the patio, something I didn't want to do because, hey, if that asshole thinks he has to do everything around here, be my guest. He saw me in the back. If they were home, no use to continue shoveling.
Didn't want to give him the satisfaction of calling me out of my room when dinner's ready, so for the second day in a row I sat in the dining room well before it was ready. And I made damn sure I didn't even look at the prick the whole time we sat across from each other at the dinner table.
My Fucking Father was still his open, jovial self -- but not to me, of course, because I somehow betrayed him. Dumbass. Mother told him to pour some soup for me, but he refused. Fine, I didn't really like that shit anyway. Plus, Mother poured it out for me. The way he was passive-aggressively ignoring me, I was glad he didn't undercook the chicken in the toaster oven, or even poison them.
I gave it back to him by putting my dirty plate and utensils on the far side of the counter so he'd have to reach over. It's sad, it really is. But I learned all these puerile techniques from My Fucking Father. I'm trying my best not to let him get to me, yet I have to communicate how I feel to him. I swear that no other family operates this way. See, this is why I'm not having kids. I'm not going to be a good dad because I didn't have a good dad.
Plan on visiting my uncle in the nursing home tomorrow. Called Aunt to see if I could pick her up tomorrow. She called back, but no on my cell, but on the home phone. My Fucking Father hollered for me from downstairs. "Yeah, yeah, I heard ya!" I whined back at him. First thing that bitch said to me.
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