All Because Of Laundry

So yesterday all I wanted to do was do my laundry, and because she asked me to, I told Mother in case she wanted to add her own clothes.  But today, she bitched that I did the laundry last week, so why am I doing it now.  That's bullshit; most normal families do the laundry every week.  But I wasn't going to push back because that's useless ... until Father said I had a lot of laundry.

Then Mother said to do it, but, and this boggles my fucking mind, she wanted to see the pile of laundry.  Why in the hell do I need to prove to you that I have laundry?  That I have enough laundry to do?  Fuck you!  That forced my hand; I had a bunch of clothes that are cold wash/low dry and medium wash/low, but since Mother saw them all I had the expectation that I would wash all of them.  I decided on cold/low because I think that's the least damaging; the warm/lows just don't get washed as well as they should be, while, I think, if I did it the other way the cold/lows would get, like, permanently shrunk.

At any rate I had a full load that was a pain-in-the-ass to wash and dry.  In the meantime I had to help out with Mother panicking again over some real estate-related e-mail that I once again had no idea to fix even though Mother insisted that I could because I speak English and "I know computers."  I've tried explaining to this to her before; neither of those things means I can help her with her problem, especially one that I don't understand because she failed to explain it well to me.  And it turns out that there probably isn't anything I could do to help because what she wanted to do was something that simply can't be done.  I won't bore you with the details because remembering this much already pisses me off.

The kicker, however, is, once again, My Fucking Father.  I was watching TV while starting to fold the laundry in what constitutes the laundry room when I hear him stomping his feet up the stairs.  I knew what was coming next: Asking me trite, dumb questions about working tomorrow knowing full well he was going to ask me when I'm going to find a better one.  This time, knowing exactly what he was going to say and letting him know I just wanted to fold my laundry in peace, I snapped at him when he asked me, get this, how many hours I'm working today.  Jesus fucking Christ, even that question's too dumb for him.

I was exasperated.  "Eight!" I screamed at 11 at night.  He was sheepish at my response to him.  Don't know what you'd be surprised.  After he grabbed a cutie he looked at me and asked me, of course, if I'm going back to school, to which I can only reply I'm thinking about it.  Goddammit, I knew he was going to say something like that and he still fucking blindsided me.  So I ran into my bedroom until he went back downstairs.

All because of fucking laundry.