Should Have Brought Up My Laundry

This is kind of an addendum to the previous post.  I'm giving it its own title because yesterday's laundry led to My Fucking Father's latest threat to throw me out.

So while I was writing said previous blog post I had a thought.  You know, if I'm going to just wash the bedspread, I should bring up the rest of the clothes because it's possible My Father would put them in himself, and I would hate that.  But then I just forgot, because I do.

So it was time for me to leave for lunch with my aunt and uncle and cousin and I was going to bring up the laundry when, as I approached it, I heard the washer.  Goddamn it, he just meddled again.

My Fucking Father was wringing out the mop when I looked into the washer.  He put in all the clothes that were in the hamper (sans the red towel he told me to put aside).  I also checked the dryer which was spinning the bedspread.

Normally, I would be OK with that.  But, once again, My Fucking Father butted in on something that I could have done -- wanted to do -- all by myself.  So I muttered, while he stopped to look at me, almost as if he wanted me to, "You shouldn't have done that."

So My Fucking Father said something while I left the laundry room.  Don't know what; I have to go.  But what I said obviously was the spark that lit the powder keg he created.  He started outright yelling at me that I didn't appreciate him.  After I stopped to calm him down -- I trotted out the lie that I had other clothes I needed to put in -- he only got further enraged, talking about how "I'm in my own world," comparing me to friends I don't bring to the house for this very reason, and ... well, he kept blabbing about something.  I didn't really understand it, he was just lost his temper when he accused me of losing my temper.

I don't appreciate you, dad?  OK, I appreciate you.  I appreciate you for dumping my clothes in the washer without telling me.  I appreciate you telling me to remove a perfectly good towel.  I appreciate you barging into my bedroom with a mop to clean the dust in the corner.  I appreciate you cleaning every day, every fucking day, for no other reason than you're retired.  I appreciate you for taking all of my shit, including my passport, into Grandmother's room without my permission.

There are other things for which I have not been sufficiently grateful.  I appreciate you for telling me I hold my chicken like I'm gay.  I appreciate for telling me I need to get out of the house more.  I also appreciate you for telling me I spend too much time out of the house.  I appreciate you for incessantly asking me when I'm going to find a good job, or when I'm going to go back to school.  I appreciate you nitpicking on every single thing I do or say, even though I never have asked for your opinion.  Finally, I appreciate you for not kicking me out of the house despite me failing to be the good, successful, rich, happy, mentally stable child you expected me to be when you fucked Mother.  How could I have squandered such a head start when I had a paternal unit who was also good, successful, rich, happy, and mentally stable?

Good enough, Father?

Should have brought up my laundry.

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So I told him I had to leave for work.  I didn't; had lunch then worked out.  Came back to see Mother went to the grocery store.

Came in with some grocery bags just as My Fucking Father was coming down the stairs.  I offered him so bags; instead he bent down to pick the bags Mother put on the floor.

Well, OK, then.  Nothing's gonna change?  Nothing's gonna change.