Somehow I think our relationship right now is the worst it's ever been. And I didn't even talk to him this evening.
Well, I did. It was 6 o'clock when I "returned home from work." Hey, I can't be home at the same time every day or else he'd get suspicious. Also, I wanted to bang out a Super Bowl XLVII predictions column. Plus, the contractor was there that day (I think), so getting home early is useless because we won't eat until he's gone.
My Fucking Father was calling me. Immediately (because I was driving) I told him I'd be home in three minutes. "Okaaaaaaaaaay," he whined as I immediately closed my flip. Whatever.
Got home and saw the door was open. Well, My Fucking Father opened it for me. Either he's angry at me or happy -- not happy because of me, just happy in general. So I immediately drop everything and eat, which were chicken sandwiches. Today was not a cooking day at home. Today was a buy-food-and-eat-it-when-you-want kind of day. Did not know that my parents ate before me.
And that's when Mother told me, as I was putting my stuff in my bedroom, that My Fucking Father was livid at me. Why? "Clean your nightstand!" she said, pointing at all the stuff on it. "All the stuff," by the way, include my tax forms, some coupons, and letters. That's it. There is a mound of stuff, but it's nothing to get bent out of shape over. Well, except for My Fucking Father, who is goddamn insane over shit like that.
Apparently he invaded my bedroom, again, looked at it, and said I broke my promise to him. What fucking promise? I don't promise a goddamn thing. Now, I'll do it under threat of getting thrown out of the house. Even though Mother has a propensity of blowing things out of proportion -- there is a chance that My Fucking Father was not pissed, merely perturbed, and Mother just said that so I would clean it up -- I cleaned it up. Not everything is off of it, but it's cleaner. The coupons and letters are hidden away (that goddamn well better be good enough for him) but the 1040's are still seen, just not on the top of the night stand. What is still there are my remotes, my lotion, and a deck of cards. Like I said, that'd better be enough to placate him ... until he decides to bitch about something else he thinks is dirty.
What an asshole. What kind of crazy prick gets bent out of shape over a pile of papers? He does. And it's only going to get worse. Seriously, this is the type of stuff that Grandmother obsessed over, but she had the excuse of dementia. Wait a second. ...
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You know, maybe My Fucking Father's just frustrated with me. I'm still living at home, maybe he imagined that he would have this house all to himself and Mother once the children all grew up (empty nests seem to be A-OK with him ... fuck, having no children probably was OK to him), and he resents me being an anchor. What's worse is that in a couple of months I'll be -- gulp -- 37.
I still need to stay home. Still dangerous out there. What happens if I get mugged on my way home? And what if robots take my job? That's happening, man, technology is rendering millions unemployed. What the fuck am I going to do then? Go back to school to ring up debt just to be spit out into a workforce that has too many applicants and not enough positions? Fuck that, I'd rather just stay home and sleep. Nothing bad will happen that way.
Thought a lot about that -- the future, My Fucking Father, my mortality -- while trying to stay very quiet while he was up again at odd times tonight either doing something or getting something to eat. I don't, for the life of me, why he is always upset at me. But does he have reason to?
What the fuck is he going to ambush me with tomorrow?
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