My Fucking Father Has No Other Hobbies

When I come home, usually something that I put somewhere in my bedroom has been moved, meaning My Fucking Father has been in there.  That's annoying enough, but it didn't happen every goddamn day like it's happening now.  In the past when that happened I figured he was just bored.  Now, I think it's a measure of control over me.

Last/Monday night, after seeing The Great Dictator (excellent; the blurb of the theater I saw it in called it, "The most important comedy film ever," and even though that sounds ironic, I think it's true) I came home.  My Fucking Father didn't touch anything except for the three pairs of slippers I use.  I strewed them around the floor; he fuckin' stacked them up, all neat and shit.  Besides hating this invasion of privacy, I want y'all to know that I did not pay for these slippers.  My Fucking Parents bought them and gave them to me.  Not all at once, but several years apart.  I don't know really know why.  One pair I use, and then out of the blue they just give me another pair.  The newest pair, which they got me a couple months ago, they said they wanted me to use because, "They were quiet."  Like I stomp around in the old slippers to the point where they get woken up.  They have bought so many slippers for me thinking they know what's best for me; wouldn't they have found the perfect, most quietest slippers for me by now?

The more I think of this, the more I fucking hate him.  Get a fucking hobby, you creepy goddamn dolt.