So yesterday (Monday/Memorial) morning I went out in the morning. I actually wanted to go downtown to see the English Championship Playoff Final/Promo Game, where Huddersfield Town (and longtime fan Sir Patrick Stewart himself) beat Reading on contrived Penalty Kicks. But when I saw Mother on my way out, I told her I wanted to exercise and then I was spending some time with a friend over lunch.
She said OK, then she told me to wait and she ran into the master bedroom. That's where My Fucking Father was, and I overheard her asking, "Do you want him to drop you off? I'll pick you up later," to which he refused. Apparently Mother had plans too; she was going shopping, as is one's want on a day as solemn as Memorial Day.
See, these are the times I regret just leaving out the door every morning, including weekends. I know that these days my parents are spending their time going around their properties cleaning up garbage in order to sell them. It's a long process to unwind, and I figure that I could help with something during weekends. Although I really wanted to watch this Promo Game, I easily could have spent the day with my folks cleaning up one of their houses. Really, I would have, gladly -- provided they tell me this ahead of time. Last weekend, during the week, even the night before? That's enough of a head's-up. But not the morning of, not when I was bolting out the door. Now, if My Fucking Father did say yes, I would have no choice but to help him. But he didn't.
Yet I knew my old man, and I think that all was an excuse so he could be passive-aggressive. He confirmed that, passive-aggressively, when he barked, "Eat!" for dinner while I was in my room. I gave him the Powerball tickets he wanted me to buy for him anyway.
I got done eating, and this time I didn't bother to ask if they needed help washing the table. I scurried for my room, and after lolling around in my bed checking my smart, I felt this wave of unconsciousness attack me. Getting only 5 1/2 hours of sleep on a day where I could have slept in (or helped my parents out with real estate stuff) took its toll, even if I did sleep two hours Sunday evening.
I know that My Fucking Father knew that I retreated into bed and fell asleep. He hates that. Hates it. For some unknown goddamn reason he hates it. So, just as I was falling asleep I hear foot stomps just outside my door. And then I hear this ungodly clanging of pots and pans, all the while the water from the kitchen sink was as loud as I ever heard it. And My Fucking Father was just scouring and scrubbing and pouring out and clanging whatever the fuck he was cleaning either onto the drying rack or putting them away. He was trying to wake me up, that's for damn sure. Just for some perceived slight he's had against me since the day I was born. And that motherfucker succeeded, unfortunately.
The night project is extending through this week, much to my surprise. As tired as I am working 12-4 hours, that may be a blessing in disguise, at least for now. I know some fucking talk about finding a job or going back to school is in order very soon, so maybe avoiding getting into a situation enough days will make him forget. Oh, who am I kidding -- he'll start yelling at me about that bullshit the next time I have dinner at home no matter how many times I don't have dinner with them.
Why did I have to be born with a goddamn prick for a father?
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