Man, have I stepped in it now.  A couple hours ago my parents just gave me the ultimatum to move out of the house.

It started when I went back into my old bedroom and saw that My Fucking Father moved my night table.  He could only do that by emptying the magazines in the drawer -- Playboys.  I considered that an invasion of my privacy, and I bellowed downstairs at how he infantilized me.

I was ranting and raving, and hungry, and I was mad that My Fucking Father not only moved my mags but also the sandwich Mother, sweet Mother, made for me for work.  I then complained that there was a third slice of bread in the sandwich.  And that pretty much was it from her end.

Like one time before, after I announced that I was flying to Switzerland to see my sister get married, she ordered me to leave.  And that wasn't the end of it; she said she was serious.  And for about an hour she just yelled at me at how ungrateful I was.  And then My Fucking Father came up to yell at me about how dirty I was.

Man, I just hate it when My Fucking Father moves my shit.  I'll shower and brush my teeth, but he never tells me goddamn anything, he just does it.  Plus I was tired from work, and I just let off some steam.  My parents do it all the time; goddamn, I learned it from them!  But I paid.

Mother seems serious.  June 1, get out.  They made a whole new bed for me in Grandmother's old room, but my anger that they threw her out and my complaining just once about bread seems to have convinced them to fuck all those plans to shit.  I'm typing in this new room now.  I'll be sleeping in it too, in just a few minutes, in a possibly futile attempt to change their mind.  The blinds aren't even on yet, and the neighbor has a huge flood light that goes directly into my bed's line of vision.  But I will sleep here nonetheless.

Stay tuned.  I am in big, big trouble.