Oh, Almost There, Almost Done -- Oh, Goddammit!

They've been renovating the kitchen and upstairs bathroom for the past two weekends now.  With so much commotion with the workers there, last weekend we were ushered downstairs to eat fast food both Saturday and Sunday.  For Sunday night dinner Mother went to some social gathering, leaving My Father, these workers, and me.

For the first time in a long time we got -- well, I ordered and carried out -- pizza.  Damn, I miss pizza.  Anyway, this set up an awkward tableau where My Father and I were hunkered in his computer room to just eat.  Far from ideal as a dining room -- there's a footstool I sat on, My Father sat on his desk chair, and we laid the pizza box on a laundry hamper.

I was afraid with us two just sitting by ourselves, My Fucking Father would try to raise the issue of my future.  As usual, I have no answer.  So all this time, eating slice after slice, I'm just waiting for My Fucking Father to launch into, "So, what's your future like?"  I didn't have a good answer for it, I was just emotionally steeling myself.

So we're just sitting there in silence for most of the conversation.  The only thing we say to each other is who wanted the last piece of pizza.  And so I thought, Maybe I can get through this awkward situation without him fucking coming down on me.  Good times!

He was done while I was scarfing down the last of the pizzas, and so he left.  I let my guard.  But then, just as I was about to get up, he comes back in the room:

"Are you working tomorrow?"

Me, lying: "Yeah, in the afternoon, from noon till 5."

Oh-oh -- this is the opening My Fucking Father usually seeks before launching into me: "Why don't you get a full-time job?"

And this is where I had to choose between bad choices.  I could have just not said anything and looked at him stupid, prompting him to harrumph and leave.  Looking back, that would have been than me, for some fucking reason, trying to add levity to the suddenly heavy atmosphere of the room added by My Fucking Father's comment by piggybacking on his comment with something he usually says: "Or maybe I should go back to school!"

"Tcha!  You talk, you never do," My Fucking Father said, in disgust, as he stomped out of the room.

Well, fuck me.  And fuck him, too. That was humiliating to hear.  Partly because he was right.

I don't care, I just wanted no talking during that dinner.  Not too much to ask.