Fuck You, Father: Another Blog About My Parents Throwing Grandmother Out Of The House

Why did I go downstairs to see My Fucking Father at the computer room tonight? I should have just put on my shoes and left, leaving no explanation as to why I was leaving at 9 at night.

Oh, I remember: I heard one of my parents leaving after dinner, and I didn't know who, and I promised Mother I would listen to what she wanted to change regarding the spreadsheet I helped her set up. So I went downstairs to ask what turned out to be My Fucking Father and asked him about the spreadsheet.

Like he does, that motherfucking bastard, he goes: "That doesn't matter. Anyway. ..." and then he launched into his self-centered spiel about the process of putting Grandmother into a nursing home. He chastised me for not telling him that the TB shot Grandmother had to take had to be seen again in 48 hours. Apparently My Fucking Father came home to take her to the doctor's today; the test would need to be checked on Saturday, but no physician would be on hand. Whoops.

The self-absorption My Fucking Father spewed in this stupid one-sided conversation was breathtaking. I didn't want to hear it because I didn't want to hear the news that my whole world is going to crash down on me come Tuesday. But while standing in front of this asshole I wanted to stop hearing his spittle coming out of his goddamn mouth:

• He says the place Grandmother's moving into is "like a 4-star hotel." It apparently has all the fucking amenities. If it's fucking swanky, why in the fuck doesn't he move in? Asshole.
• Grandmother said she finally wants to go. She doesn't want to go. She said yes to you, dick, because she knows that's what you want to hear, and she knows you're putting her away whatever she says, and if she pipes up and tells you that she really doesn't want to go, and that she's scared of leaving a home she's been in four almost 35 years, you're just going to yell at her like you've done the past decade. She said yes because she quit putting up a fight with you. Goddammit.

I told him I had to go to work at 9. That's a fucking lie; I don't have to work at all. The only thing I need to do tomorrow is get my oil changed and my tires rotated. I want to go to a shoe store and buy shoes with removable insoles. I might exercise as an excuse to watch the tournament games. Yeah, that's my "busy" day.

You know, maybe I shouldn't go out. Maybe I should try and spend as much time with Grandmother as possible. But no, I think going out is my way of protesting what my parents are making Grandmother do. Then again, even if Grandmother wasn't being forced out, I would be out and about on a Friday anyway.

He needs my help moving Grandmother's stuff to her grand new place. Next weekend is bad for me because of the Minnesota RollerGirls bout, the Final Four, the North Stars Alumni weekend and the benefit for the stripper who killed herself over the holidays. I could help over the week, but next weekend is too busy for me. It's like it for My Fucking Father -- and My Fucking Mother, who wants her gone too -- to bother me with his bullshit when I'm busy. After the Frozen Four -- shit, after I do my taxes -- I can help ... wait, who am I kidding, I wouldn't want to assist in this frame-up even if I weren't busy.

I'll admit that seeing Wisconsin and Michigan St. lose angered me; I had picks in all four games tonight, and those two (plus Marquette) lost, thus reaffirming how shitty I am with bracketing. But pissed me off most was My Fucking Father's tone. I wanted to know about an important thing Mother wanted my help on, and he brushed that, and thus me, aside for his own goddamn thing. Fuck you, Father, for disrespecting me and Grandmother. Goddamn you!!!