I'm going to kill my parents if they keep this shit up, I swear to God.
Yesterday (Saturday) morning, after I gave My Mother a draft of an e-mail she was going to type verbatim because she was freaking out that the fax she made me send to the recipient was never received, I was going upstairs to help My Fucking Father outside with the snow. I had heard that overnight we might get some snow, but we got blindsided with a couple, maybe a few, inches, and My Fucking Father probably was freaking out about clearing the driveway because my brother, sister-in-law and niece were dropping by in the afternoon.
I was walking up the stairs past the front door, which was open, when My Fucking Father threw the screen door open and, without missing a beat, screeched, "Is the snowblower broken?!" To which I said -- said -- "It worked just fine." To which he said, and I still cannot fucking believe this shit that he pulled, he said, "Why are you yelling at me?!"
YELLING AT YOU!!! YOU DUMB MOTHERFUCKER, YOU JUST YELLED AT ME AND THEN ACCUSED ME OF DOING TO YOU WHAT YOU JUST DID TO ME!!! AND HAVE DONE TO ME FOR THE PAST 42 GODDAMN YEARS?!?!?! FUCK OFF!!!
(Man, I really don't feel like talking about this after I just wrote that. But I have to, because if I don't I think I'm shying away from my real feelings, and this blog is about trying to address them in order to process my feelings and, hopefully, finally getting through them.)
So, to his question about why he made up thinking I was yelling at him, I told him that I was yelling at My Fucking Mother -- which is a total lie, because I wasn't yelling at her because she was actually being calm, but I couldn't think on my feet because My Fucking Father blindsided me again.
I finally get dressed and head out to the snowblower, where I find that the dumbass bitch didn't turn on the gas knob. Once I did that, it worked fine and, because I'm the dutiful son, I plowed so that old, crazy dingbat didn't have to ... until I had to kill it so I could move the cars and plow the rest of the snow. I moved the cars and tried to restart it, but it didn't work. I'm going to assume the engine is flooded and it needs time to settle down, but I might be saying that just because I got it to work.
He may -- may -- have calmed down as soon as I turned that knob. But as I was done and going back into the house, both of my parents were on their way out. I overheard My Fucking Mother call me a son-of-a-bitch, probably because My Fucking Father ratted on me to her about what I said, which, again, was a lie because I couldn't pull a better excuse out of my ass.
She replied to my text about getting that e-mail sent during last night's United FC match, but I am writing this at Glam Doll because I'm scared as hell I'm going to drive home and get to the front door, only to see that I can't get in. Both of My Fucking Parents are pissed at me, and this may be the final straw in their paranoid minds to finally throw me out of the house. I hope not -- I've got nowhere else to go, and I still haven't finished punishing them for ruining my life. But even if I can get in, it doesn't feel ... safe in the house anymore. I remember having the house all to myself just a week ago, and even though it's more shelter than I need, I felt secure in there. Not anymore, thanks to these two assholes I'm made from and their yelling and false accusations and shit. So even though I live there, I literally am not in a good place right now.
I was almost thrown out of the house several years ago, but as of right now, that seems like a not-unreasonable possibility. And I am not completely unwelcome of the idea. Right now.
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