Fucking Father Threw My Fucking Stuff Away

Oh, I'm so pissed off at him right now.

First time in a long time he pulled this shit.  I thought we were doing good.  But he had to fuckin' throw that away, literally.

OK, so I wanted to put some topical on the acne in the back of my head; maybe I'll talk about it some other time.  I had a bag of cotton balls that I took from the closet in my bathroom and threw on the floor.  I left the bag there because I know where it is.  But it wasn't there.  I suspected My Father, who went through and cleaned my bedroom, took it and put it back because he deemed such a task his birthright.

So I go to the bathroom and open the closet.  I see the cotton balls.  I also see everything organized.  That would be great ... except for one thing.  I frequently throw my reading material -- Entertainment Weekly, City Pages, etc. -- in the shelf where the towels are.  The towels are there, neatly folded.  Those magazines are not.  And that fucking pisses me off because My Fucking Father has gone back to his stealing, entitled fucking ways and threw away my shit that he had no goddamn right to throw away.

Problem is, I don't know where it is right now.  I don't know when he cleaned it.  If it was before Thursday, and he wanted to be cruel enough to throw all those things in the trash instead of the recycling bin (which is picked up biweekly, not weekly), they're all gone.  If not, I need to check both the trash bin and the recycling bin and, I swear to fucking God, I am going to take all those magazines out and put them in my storage unit, where it'll be safe from the evil clutches of My Fucking Father.  I don't know how I'm going to do it surreptitiously, but I figure I'll just fucking lie to my parents about "doing something back at work," and, either before I leave or after I come back, fucking open those bins in the middle of the night and the cold and search for my shit.  If that motherfucker doesn't think I will do it, he has no goddamn idea that I care more about those things than even him right now.  I'll open trash to find them, and he can fuckin' try me on that if he thinks I'm bullshittin'.

And in the meantime I'm going to go through the recycling bag out in the kitchen to see if my stuff is still there.  Save me a trip if I get lucky.  And I need to wash my hands anyway; why can't I get a little dirtier?  Have to learn how to roll in the mud with My Fucking Father.