My Fucking Father, in his infinite wisdom, has been varnishing these old wood ... things that go between the base of the walls and the floor.  What do you call them?  He's been doing this the past couple nights, and he's been using a fan in order to dry them.

What I didn't know -- or he didn't tell me -- is that some of these are going to go up where my bedroom now is.  He did this last night, except that it wasn't as dry as it was supposed to be.  So he turned on a fan to dry off the varnish around, say, 9 o'clock.  And the fan was pointed so that the fumes from the varnish would seep into my bedroom.

So, all of a sudden, I start to feel dizzy and faint.  To the point where I had to step outside three fucking times, in the cold and (albeit beautiful) snowfall to clear my head.  I have no fucking idea if My Fucking Father knows what varnish can do to you if you smell it long enough, but there's a warning right on the can that says you need proper ventilation.  You don't get proper ventilation on a winter's night, when it's snowing and 9 degrees outside and when the only thing blowing throughout the house is heat.

I had to do something, so I took the fan and turned it around.  The only way I could get the fan pointed away from my bedroom is to plug it into my bedroom, and luckily Grandmother's bedroom has an outlet just inside the door.  I felt a little better after stepping outside anyway, but I was really miffed that the goddamn varnish fumes were being blown right toward me.  In my more paranoid moods, I would have thought My Fucking Father wanted it that way.  Probably, though, he just didn't think about my well-being.

---

That fan was there for about half-an-hour.  That's when, inevitably, My Fucking Father went upstairs to tend to the fan.  He wasn't bent out-of-shape that I moved the fan.  Unfortunately, looking at the fan meant he could peer into the crack of my door that I had to keep open for the wire to the fan.

While he told me to put the fan away, he thought it was a good occasion to say, "Whenever you have time, clean up your room."

FUCK YOU, GODDAMMIT!!!!!!!!!!!!  THIS WAS A TRAP, I KNEW IT WAS A TRAP!!!!!!!!!!!

Actually, that's not how I feel.  This is how I feel: My Fucking Father set me up.  By not caring that the fumes were being carried into my bedroom, I was forced to open up what I consider to be my private space.  I had a feeling that he was, in my opinion, going to take advantage of that, and he did, and he wouldn't have if I didn't leave the crack in my door open, which I had to do because I wanted the varnish fumes to be blown away from me.

In other words, this is all My Fucking Father's fault.  On top of this, he had no idea that I, in fact, did clean my room yesterday afternoon and evening while I was cooped up because I had nowhere to go because it was snowing outside.  But again, he doesn't care.  All he cares about is me cleaning my room to a level that I'm not aware of specifically, but is probably unobtainable.

God, I hate My Father.  I really, really hate My Fucking Father.

---

I played a waiting game this morning to see if they would leave before they would know I woke up.  I could lie awake in bed for hours, contemplating stuff.  I woke up at 9 (I was so fucking depressed and tired that after watching the rerun of Saturday Night Live I just fell asleep) and was waiting for them to, you know, leave.  But they didn't.

It's a little after 11:30 and they still haven't.  Oh my God, are they not leaving?  Have they closed The Store permanently??  Is this is my worst nightmare finally made real???

I had to get up; if they're not leaving, I had to get up.  Good thing, too, because about a half-hour ago My Fucking Father bellowed from outside my bedroom, "Is Unforgivable Wetness (he doesn't call me that, by the way, I'm just hiding my identity) not up yet?!?!?!"  I was up, and since I had just changed my sheets I technically was cleaning my room.  And I said such: "I'm cleaning my room!"

He left me alone.  But not before Mother said something that angered My Fucking Father: "Are you kidding me?  It's such-and-such a time and he's not up yet???" or something like that he said.

So now it's a quarter to noon and they're ... not leaving.  My intention is to get away from these fucking people as quickly as possible, by eating out for lunch and then exercising, only coming home as the Super Bowl's about to start.

But goddamn, My Fucking Father is pissed off.  I have yet to step out of this bedroom.  And I have no idea what's waiting for me once I step out.

If it's anything worth writing, I'll let you know what happens.  If my next blog post or two is about other things, well, shit's blown over.