I woke up late this morning -- 10:30. Felt good. Thought I was owed. But I wanted to wake up earlier so I could go work on stuff on my computer -- stuff like this blog post. That's what I get for staying up.
In the middle of a rainstorm I wanted to go out to do a few things: Exercise, get a haircut, print out tickets for tomorrow's NCAA Baseball Tournament games. As I was getting ready to leave, and to make my excuse to leave, I hear clanging in the pantry, which is right next to Grandmother's bedroom, which I am using.
As a courtesy -- I've got to be courteous to stay here -- I look and see My Father ... uh, moving things around. There are pots and pans on the floor, and he is moving things on a shelf. I ask, "Do you need help?"
After a second he says, "No. You don't know what to do."
I've heard that a lot -- "You don't know what to do." So I don't do anything. I don't help out. And I am free to do other stuff, such as, you know, leave.
That's basically been the story for the past 42 years. Yeah, I don't do stuff with my parents like other kids do stuff with their parents. This is why.
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