I don't know what the fuck My Fucking Father was doing tonight, but he was on another of his goddamn cleaning jags.  After erasing whatever imprints were left that Grandmother had ever lived with us by completely painting her room white (including the ceiling -- nice touch, pops) by mopping up all the floors in the house (both floors) like a demon, like we were moving tomorrow.

While he was doing this (while I was eating, by the way), he took the time out to tell me to throw away all the trash on my bedroom floor.  By that he meant my dirty clothes, which I throw on the floor because I have no other room for them.  "If you don't do it, I will," he threatened.

"I will handle it," I replied, meaning that I won't do a fucking thing beyond throwing dirty clothes in the hamper. "Since when are clothes garbage?" I challenged her.  This is My Fucking Father at his most obnoxious, needing everything to be immaculate, unsentimentally wanting to throw shit away, no matter how useful they could still be.  What an ass.