Did Father Spot My Bloody Underwear?

Yesterday, the 4th of July, after I woke up late and dinked around to do stuff such as reorder my clothes in my bedroom and surf the Internet, I left.  But not before starting a round of clothes to launder, recommended/nagged on by My Fucking Father, who, Mother noted earlier this week, "has nothing to do" not that they closed The Store.  Fine, I'll do some laundry, even though I don't have to, but I will separate whites from darks and wash only according to those items of clothing.

I did do two separate washes, both lights and darks, both for warm wash and low dry.  But, and this is something that is increasingly getting annoying, for each category of laundry, such as white/cold/low, or dark/medium gentle/medium, there are only, at most, a few items of clothing.  I really shouldn't waste so much water and energy to dry it, but right now I want to do what neither Grandmother nor My Fucking Father will do, which is do it the right way.  Both of them will just throw all my dirty laundry into the washer and dryer without looking at the instructions.

I dilly-dallied after Father's directive; I could have done both washes and dried them together (I like that even though I have separate washes I can lump all of the whites and darks together in the dryer) fast enough so that I could get it all done before 1 o'clock, which is my self-mandated time to eat lunch.  But at around 12:10 I finally popped in my wet clothes for a 50-minute dry.  I don't want My Fucking Father to fold my clothes, let alone do them at all, and I guess I should have thought about that.  But in the end, leaving for parts unknown (I decided to take advantage of Burger King's $1.04 chicken sandwich, then went to Rosedale, then took advantage of free metered parking to walk around Uptown for a bit, then Caffetto) around noontime was more important than sticking around to make sure he didn't touch my clothes.  Besides, he was cleaning everything in the house, probably for the third time this week, so maybe he'll overlook it.

Wrong.  He didn't.  When I came home (in time for dinner and before heading out to the soccer game and fireworks with my cousin -- BTW, Minnesota United blow), I saw the hamper of clothes folded.  At least My Father left them outside my bedroom and didn't invade my privacy.

But one of those clothes I washed was my pair of white-and-yellow striped boxers.  These are ones that have a blotch of blood on them that I was not able to complete get rid of in the wash.  The blood, as you may know, comes from my ass; there is still a pimple around my bunghole, and even though it's been better the past few weeks, it apparently leaked a lot of blood when I was wearing those undies.  Hoped bleach would do it; it didn't, and when I checked it I shrugged and threw it in the dryer.  Try again another day.

And I totally did not realize the potential of My Fucking Father seeing that if and when he folded my clothes. Fucking great.  I'm just waiting for him to go crazy next time, probably tonight for dinner -- "I saw blood on your underwear.  Are you OK?"  And he'll probably go off on how, like, I still sleep too much.  And I'm still thinking about what lie I will say in order to shut him up.  I think I'm going with not wiping my ass after I took a shit.