He sounded perturbed I was out late Sunday afternoon. Actually I was about to head back home, but when I saw that my parents hadn't returned, I decided to trip myself to coffee at the mall. I do not want to be home when they come home. I avoid it at all costs. I fear what My Fucking Father will say and/or think when my parents come through the front door and he sees me doing something he doesn't approve of.
He was already pissed me off over last night's dinner when he nagged at me to mow the lawn. He got back at me when he had me check the dryer not once, but twice. I guess he needed to use it and wanted me to get my clothes out of there as soon as possible. But this is a cheap shit knockoff dryer, one so rudimentary that it only has two dials, one that you wind to start and one that has a couple notches, only one of which is labeled ("less dry" -- why would you want less dry clothes coming out of your clothes dryer?), and Grandmother frequently said that the machine wouldn't dry.
This time I was able to see for myself. And you know, Grandmother is right -- the dryer doesn't work. I told My Fucking Father this after he sent me downstairs, saying "Oh, it's done now!" When I told him it wasn't, he said "OK, OK," only to repeat himself about 40 minutes later. None of my clothes were dry, but I was so fucking tired of hearing My Fucking Father hector me about bullshit chores that I just took my goddamn clothes out of the dryer to fucking make him happy and to shut him up. They're cooling in my clothes hamper now.
My Fucking Father just fuckin' aggravated me even more when I came home from work tonight. There was this huge mop and industrial/janitor's bucket right in the middle of the quasi-living room (what used to be the dining room). I then saw the doors to both of my bedrooms were wide open. I now make it a habit to close them completely when leaving in the morning. Since My Fucking Father was in Grandmother's room painting and/or sanding and/or whatever the fuck he was doing, I knew he kicked them open.
The invasive son-of-a-bitch moved my shit around my old/real bedroom. There was a huge empty spot right in front of me at the door, so I think My Fucking Father was guided by his fastidious demons, took that industrial/janitor's bucket and, while cleaning all the floors on the upper floor, pushed through and mopped up my bedroom. (I just noticed as I typed this that the black marks made by the rollers of the chair I am sitting on right now are completely gone. So the guy was on his hands and knees, in my bedroom, wiping away all those marks.) I would thank him, but I honestly believe it was completely unnecessary.
I was waiting for him to bitch about the work he thought he needed to do for me, and sure enough, before dinner he told me yet again to throw all my shit away. I did a lot of that on Sunday, but no, goddammit, he is not going to be happy until every single room consists of just a mattress on a floor. I really believe that, he is that motherfucking crazy. So I yell back: "What else in my bedroom do you think I need to remove? The chair? The pillows? The desk?" He dropped the subject because the chicken was ready, but this will not be the end of it, goddamn.
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