So Father has asked me to help him clean up the garden tomorrow morning.  I don't know exactly what that entails.  My parents said something about putting the vine trestle away, but I suspect there's more to it than that.  There's always more to it than that; they never say so until I think I'm done helping them and then they bleepin' blindside me.

I don't know why I'm always afraid of helping my parents.  It's not like I'm doing anything today.  In fact, since my alma mater's on a bye this week, I figured that this would be the only time I would have a Saturday off through the New Year (well, I didn't initially plan on having it off; see next blog post [at least that's my plan]), so I was going to just stay home.  I fear, however, that they're going to piss me off by, like, having me do chores all day -- those leaves are not going to rake themselves -- and then harangue me for not cleaning my room when I want to do just that today.

You know, come to think of it, there has to have been a pattern when I was young where every good deed I did for them did not go unpunished.  That has to be the reason why I'm not looking forward to this in the morning.