You know those bags I talked to you guys about yesterday, the ones that I was supposed to throw all the stuff on my desk into? Well, that was for moving the desk to Grandmother's room. You see, My Fucking Father has this grand masterplan that I only inferred Sunday.
When I was at a shoot Saturday afternoon, I called him to let them know what was going on. (Well, I didn't tell them I was volunteering to be an extra in a movie, but I said I was coming home to eat.) That's when he told me that he needed me to pack all my stuff into those bags because he planned on moving my desk into her room. Which means that I eventually was going to take over Grandmother's bedroom as my own. His idea, not mine. Stupid.
What I did not surmise -- or maybe I did, I just didn't give a fuck -- was that wanted this done soon. Like, today/Sunday.
I woke up at 1 in the afternoon. Blissfully, they were gone. If I was lucky, I would mow the lawn and get the laundry done while checking out Game 7 of the series between the Los Angeles Clippers and Memphis. Once that game was done, I'd go out to Target and buy so milk and peanut butter.
But just about a half-hour later, before I could even go out to the garage and get the lawnmower, they came home. I was so stunned that, as I stared down at them and Mother asked me if I wanted to eat some Vietnamese sandwiches they just bought, I couldn't say anything. Mother then said I looked like I wanted to fight. I kind of did.
So all my fucking plans were ruined. As I thought, I wasn't able to sit down and watch the end of the game (which the visiting Clippers won, by the way) because My Fucking Father wanted to busy himself. I helped him assemble the frame on which Grandmother's old bed would rest; it would then go into her old room, where My Fucking Father deems that I will use.
And that wasn't all. He wanted the desk moved today as well, because there is urgency to his need to make shit new and different. I did not clean out my desk. I did not even take back the bags that he threw down on the floor. I didn't even budge last night (Saturday) when he tried to find me, opened the door to my "old" room, saw that the desk was as cluttered as I wanted it to, and then yelled at me as soon as I got up from my sister's bed (I was napping) to see what the fuck was going on. I figured I had time. No, I didn't. He gave me a gray tray and told me to empty everything that was on the desk into that, take out the shelves, and get him to we could move it.
I will say that I have a lot of shit on my desk. The tub wasn't enough; I had to go and get the bags. I cleared out my desk in protest. I mean, why in the fuck do I have to move again? Completely goddamn unnecessary.
This brought up another problem. I could not take out one of the shelves because it is a locked, secure one. In that one are all my old Playboys. I have lost the key to that droor, so I just said to My Fucking Father that we would have to move it with it intact.
We managed to get the desk out of my "old" room by tipping it on its side. But as my desk was sitting out where the dining table used to be, I saw him fiddling underneath it.
"There's a spare key down here," My Fucking Father said. There is a middle shelf, right above where your legs would go if you were at your desk. Behind the drawer, screwed into the back of the desk, is the key. Ingenious and clever ... and totally potentially dangerous if he found out what was in the secure drawer.
Luckily for me, he didn't pry when I said I would handle it. I took the key from him, turned my back to him as I opened up the shelf, then quickly took it off its rail and scurried into my sister's room. After we finished moving the desk and did all this shit with Grandmother's room was done, I went back outside to finish mowing the backyard. (I stopped midway through to catch the end of the game.) I realized that My Fucking Father could be nosy and go into my sister's room and see the shelf, so I turned off the mower, went back inside, took the shelf from my sister's room, put it back in the desk, and locked it.
Was good to see a PB from 2000, by the way. The Girls of Conference USA still look masturbatable.
Let's see how long I have till My Fucking Father insists I move into Grandmother's old room.
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