It didn't stop for dinner tonight. I thought I heard him say something from the back deck, but I was riveted by 60 Minutes so I didn't know for sure. Suddenly, he yells out, "EAT!" to which I reply just as shrilly, "Alright!" My Fucking Mother tried to enable him again, telling me that if I heard him I need to answer him. But I really didn't, and that fucking baby needs to speak up. And we still aren't speaking to each other.
The next big blowup might come Tuesday morning. We're getting snow, fucking again. One to three inches possible, according to the weathermen, but enough to get on our cars. Should I heed My Fucking Father's wishes and clear out the car for him before I leave that morning? Should I ignore it and make him do it his own goddamn self? Or should I do a half-ass job like I did Friday? Decisions, decisions. ...
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