I stayed out tonight. Had the third of a three-day brandy taste test to complete, otherwise I wouldn't've gotten the $150 debit card I earned for getting drunk. While I was out of the house, I might as well take in the Cold War Kids concert last night. Succinct review: Good, but uncomfortably homoerotic. The band members were touching each other frequently the whole night. The bassist in particular was pawing his bandmates all damn night. Maybe it's good for the CWK's camaraderie, but I found it more and more annoying and creepy as the set progressed.
Didn't tell my parents that I was going to a concert, of course. Told them instead that I was doing some alumni club stuff, or maybe they just didn't care. At any rate, when I came home around midnight, one of the first things My Fucking Father said was to take out the laundry so he can do it tomorrow. Once again I ask, "What's the rush?"
And then he said, "It seems like you can't take care of yourself," and even in my tired and inebriated state, that just set me off. Wow, you just can't shut the fuck up, can you? A pile of clothes means I'm just a dumb lazyass, aren't I, Father? Dude, I was, and am, busy. Fucking busy. And you know what? I also have a bunch of clothes, which means I don't have to do laundry every fucking weekend to make sure I don't have to walk outside naked. And knowing him he'll just throw all the clothes together without even trying to separate whites from colors, like you're supposed to, like I do, so they'll just come out all fucked-up.
What an asshole. Man, I totally miss not having both of them scream in my ear or insult me to my face.
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