And then that son-of-a-bitch, My Fucking Father, wakes me up at 10:30. He was being a nagging bitch for the second morning in a row (he woke me up yesterday morning at 10:30), so I sent his ass to voicemail.

And then he calls me 15 minutes later. This time he called me on his cell; does he think that changing the phone he calls from will make me pick up? I still wanted to sleep, so I sent him to voicemail again, but then I spent the rest of my time on my bed thinking up an excuse as to why I didn't pick up the first two times when he calls a third time.

And he did after I decided to get Grandmother something to eat. I decided that I would take a forward verbal approach, namely be a little forceful when I give him the excuse that I am working (italics his):

"Can I help you? I'm working."

"Have you done the forms yet?" (He threw both a property tax assessment appeal and a nursing home application form at me last night; couldn't fill out the former and I don't give a shit about the latter.)

"No. I'm working now. I'll swing by the doctor's and drop off the form (I'm not) before doing the form."

"Oh, you're working? Oh, OK then, tonight you just give me all the forms."

"You want all the forms?"

"Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaah. I told you to work on this last night and you didn't do them." (The son-of-a-bitch came upstairs overnight while I was eating a late-night snack in the dining room, the prick.) "You went somewhere last night, where did you go?"

Uh, fuck him. Why am I helping him out by going to The Store right now anyway?

Ah well. Maybe I can point out that the assessment appeal had to be postmarked by yesterday. Good luck with that, Old Man.