SHUT UP, I'LL GET SOME GODDAMN SLIPPERS, YOU HAPPY NOW, YOU PISSY MALE BITCH?!?!?!

I set my alarm for 9:45.  I thought I heard the door slam.  Hit the snooze button but couldn't fall back asleep.  The contractor (they hired a new one -- hey, let's hope this guy doesn't steal anything! [Have I blogged about that yet?]) will be here soon, so there has to be someone who's been left behind.

I get up, easily; it helps to fall asleep at 9:30, wake up at 4, then go back to sleep at around 7:30.  Looked outside to see my parents' minivan gone, but I still couldn't believe it.  That's when I heard My Fucking Father's obnoxious snort from downstairs.  Ah, so he's staying home.

I go to the bathroom to freshen up; I don't want to be home whenever My Fucking Father's home, especially when I have the energy to leave right away.  Knock on the door -- My Fucking Father stormed up the stairs as soon as I heard the pitter-patter of my little feet.  "Come out and help me," he said.

Mistake.  Big mistake.  When I got done "brushing my teeth" he said he needed my help calling a cruise ship.  All their gambling in Vegas netted my folks a free cruise to the Caribbean.  But as I was getting the landline he noticed the slippers I was wearing.  These are the ones that I took from the great Hotel Berna when we stayed for the night in Milan.  Unfortunately the left one is torn.  I think I stepped on an nail that wasn't nailed down on my way to the bathroom (courtesy of the previous thieving contractors, whom My Fucking Father hired) and it's been loose ever since.  But I've been too lazy to fix it.  Hell, My Fucking Father threw it in the trash and I fished it out to wear them -- which I was wearing when I stumbled out of the bathroom.

That's what he was reacting to when he nagged, yet fucking again, "Son, why don't you get some new slippers?"  And then he triggered some primal anger in me when he said, yet again, "You have to take care of yourself!"  HOW IN THE FUCK ARE BROKEN SLIPPERS ANY FUCKING INDICATION I DON'T KNOW HOW TO TAKE CARE OF MYSELF?!?!?!  HOW, ASSHOLE???  Didn't help that I had just realized that My Fucking Father caught me wearing the slippers he meant to throw away.

I really had it with My Fucking Father, and so I had to let him have it, contract be damned.  "If you can take care of yourself, why do you need me to call these people?!" I said to that bastard.  It has taken me a long time to develop the courage to stammer out even that, and trust me, I stumbled over some words while yelling back at him.  All that asshole could do was whine, "Do you want to call this number or not?"  I swear, at 76 (?) he is the oldest child in the world.  I get my immaturity from him.  No wonder why I never grew up to be a doctor.  I don't have the disposition.  My Fucking Father gave me his disposition (with a little help from Mother, too).

So I called and that fucker calmed down.  And just to keep the peace -- this past year I'm slowly seeing the need to just fucking do something just so the yelling stops -- is that giving in or maturity? -- I bought some fucking slippers at Target.  Slippers I didn't buy because I don't really have the money for them.  But seeing them may have mollified My Fucking Father.  But it would not shock me at all if he keeps me yelling at him, really yelling at him for the first time since The Contract, in his back pocket in order to use it against me when I wasn't expecting it down the road.  It'd be totally like him.  See, My Fucking Father gave me his ability to hold grudges, too.

Grandmother Refused To Go To The Arbitration Hearing The Way I Refused To Go To Kindergarden

Remember when I said I was taking Grandmother to the law firm Monday? Well, I might as well let the cat out of the bag because she changed her senile mind.

I had told her the day before about this deposition, and the preparing for it, because she probably wouldn't remember if I told her before then. She seemed OK, but then wanted to back out. But I insisted that she do this because when she told me about the car accident she was in, she told me wanted to go through with it. Of course, that was several months ago, so she probably forgot, but dammit, what else could I do? I'm making her lie in the bed she made.

So I wake up about two hours early and remind her, once again, that we're going -- get your hair did and all. And she seemed as serene as an 84-year-old woman who may or may not know what's going on could be. So I showered and shaved for the big occasion.

But then, as I was in the bathroom, I hear her hacking up and spitting. She has had what sounds like a cold for about a week or so, so maybe there's that. But it continued, and then Grandmother did it with more frequency, and then she did louder. Finally, she started to dry-heave.

She tried faking being sick in order to get out of going to the law firm. I was afraid of this, although I didn't think she would have the balls to do it. I remember when I was 5 I was so scared of going to school that I threw this epic temper tantrums. I would literally back myself into a corner to ensure that I would not go. I remember looking at a report card one and seeing I missed nine days of school for that quarter. So dealing with this made me understand how my parents felt when I absolutely refused to go to school. Karma.

And so I felt like I had already lost her and this battle. There's no way I can make an old lady go to the law firm. Well, I guess I can lift her over my shoulder and carry her out fireman-style. But I don't want to expend the energy. Besides, would she cooperate once we got there?

I also reassessed my headstrong approach to this. I still have no idea what exactly happened in this accident, and I know even less about what Grandmother did after that. I still have no fucking clue how this law firm got ahold of her and her information. Did they literally chase the ambulance to the hospital and hectored her into suing? I don't know if I could have just blown this off, but maybe, just maybe, I should not have just rushed headlong into doing this because I wanted to hold Grandmother to her promises. What if I make things worse? And this could be a browbeating law firm that pressured Grandmother and took advantage of her frailty. I could just say that I'm stepping in and stopping this because she doesn't know what she's doing and therefore I am doing what's best for her.

In the meantime My Fucking Grandmother was pulling out all the goddamn stops. She was dry-heaving and spitting like her goddamn life depending on it. She was shouting through the walls, "I'm sick! I can't go! Cancel!! Cancel!!!" so I could hear it. When I finished showering I saw the kitchen sink turned all the way up. I thought she forgot to turn it off again, but when I called for her from the kitchen to turn it off, she bellowed from the bathroom, "I can't! I'm too sick!! You do it!! And cancel!!!" It was absolutely mind-blowing to see this elderly woman intentionally act like a brat on purpose. What 84-year-old thinks this is an acceptable way of refusing to go somewhere?

After I reminded her we were going to the deposition she started calling her friends, probably in a state of panic. Sadly, I imagine one of them going, "If you don't want to go, you have to make it sound like you really can't go. Quick, act like you're sick! Cough and wheeze and act you're about to throw up!! Then he can't make you go to work!!!"

One of the people Grandmother called is someone I refer to as her son. He's actually a family friend from way back. He doesn't have a job, so he often takes Grandmother to places she wants to go so she can buy things and, thus, feel important. She said he was coming; she even opened the front door for him to come in, despite being "sick" and all. But I was the one who needed him now. Not only could he translate what I fucking wanted to say to my immature Grandmother, I was certain he could tell me what was going on with this deposition and how she fucking got into an accident in the first place.

He told me. I still don't quite understand. But it was getting to the point where we were supposed to be at the law firm. It was too late, and Grandmother wasn't going anywhere except lying on her death bed. I knew for some time, but we called off the deposition. Well, he did.

I don't get what happened next. I was really scared that if I called to cancel the "depo," the law firm would somehow charge Grandmother and/or me for canceling. If we weren't going to go, I just thought we would just blow them off. For all I know this was a victim assembly line, and the firm just had its paralegals run through a series of boilerplate questions and make them sign forms and then just tell them to shoo. If that was the case, ignoring them felt like the best course of action.

But Grandmother's "boy" knew the deal. He knew about the accident from the start because he's very close to Grandmother's friend, who was driving the car Grandmother was in. I got him to call the firm because I was scared. He told them Grandmother was sick. And, according to him, they said, "OK, we don't need her, we can take it from here." Really? All the letters and veiled threats to charge us fees for canceling, and you didn't even fucking need her?

Fuck this, I don't care anymore. Maybe Grandmother should be put in a home.

---

One other thing: I was certain from the first time she was really selling her pseudo-vomiting that she was faking it. But there's one important difference this day from most other days: Because I wanted to make sure Grandmother was sharp as she could be in recounting the accident, I made her take Aricept, the anti-Alzheimer's pill. It's a huge risk because I have heard that many elderly people have suffered side effects with little benefit. But I thought this was a good occasion to make her take a pill.

Just in case she wasn't faking the nausea, I logged on and Googled Aricept's side effects. One of the most common ones: nausea.

So maybe she wasn't faking it. But then, the next day, she was fine.

Fuck her, that goddamn liar.

They're About To Take My Grandmother Away, Ha-Ha!!!

Got the call as soon as I got home from having breakfast coffee yesterday morning: My Fucking Father has been feverishly calling every single nursing home in the area, and he finally succeeded: One close by has a space open, and he needed my help in giving the people there Grandmother's doctor's name and information.

Bad enough that My Fucking Father once again leaves me to do the detail work for him: "Oh, this isn't my job, you do this for me, son." I am now complicit in helping put away Grandmother. I should stall, but my further foot-dragging would only make both of my parents question why I'm not helping her ... which could -- could -- put my stay at home in jeopardy as well. So like a coward I called and gave the info. But only after hours, so as not to talk to her directly. That totally makes a difference.

The worst thing about all this is Grandmother doesn't suspect a thing. I don't know how to tell her, "They're about to send you to a nursing home away from here to die" in Chinese. All she did yesterday was eat and talk to her friends. She's harmless. Why send her away? Father called Grandmother up at home; he didn't tell her what's up, and she still doesn't know. Man, we are being so goddamn cruel to her right now.

---

My protestation came in the form of a meeping cry for help after half an hour of to-do list items for my parents. Mother came up and asked for the doctor information; man, they really want her to go, don't they?

Mother's words (paraphrasing; I've got bad memory) are in italics:

"If you want to throw her out of the house, why don't you throw her out of the house now?"

"Who's going to take care of her? You?"

"She's fine. Just because she's old doesn't mean she needs to go to a nursing home."

"It's a good place. There's 24/7 nurses there and everything."

"It's not home." (Here I bitched out and change the subject) "I haven't looked at this place yet."

"It's really nice. Much better than the one the nurse recommended."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

And there I dropped the conversation.

After decades of taking care of me, Grandmother deserves better.

---

Things are so fluid with this. The news is so bad, for Grandmother as well as (selfishly) me that I'm still trying to process this. Will keep you posted.

Too Good To Be True: Real Car Trouble

I was right; there was more to it than just a tune-up. I woke up at 1:30 because that was the latest could be out the door to get my car, run an errand at work for my parents at The Store, then do some lab work at the U.

As I was walking out, not getting a call from the shop told me one of two things: Either they are too lazy to call me and instead thought they could wait until I just showed up when they said they were going to be done, or there were complications. And by the way, I told the guy before I left this morning that if there were complications he needed to call me.

I saw him working on his computer when I reached his shop. I wasn't going to get away with just a tune-up. Apparently the fuel injector doesn't work either! Sweet!!

I was given a choice: Wait for a used one that wasn't there yet and get the car by noon tomorrow, or get a new one and have the car back this evening. And like a dumbass, my anxiety forced me to ask for the new part. Hey, I have to be at the mall tonight. I'm spending $200 more so I can make $75 tonight!!! Fuckin' A, I should've just called in sick tonight. But shit, my thinking was, I still can't afford a new car. If it's going to be a grand with a used fuel injector, what in the fucking hell is another $200 for a new one, huh? It'll last twice as long, wouldn't it?

Fuck my life. I'm paying four figures that I don't have for a car that I don't trust right now. I compound that buy paying new and needing to get it back right away, like I'm a pussy. Worst of all, I no longer trust this guy I go to, someone I've been only relying on for fluid flushes. This is the first time I've let him work something mechanical in my car because he's been good with the flushes and it's close to home -- and I thought he'd be cheaper. Well, not only is he not cheaper, I have to question whether he's trying to screw me over with this fuel injector or he doesn't know what he's doing. Both conclusions are still possible. At any rate, I'm going to have to reevaluate using this guy from now on. I can't accept this shit.

All I know is that if I'm paying $1200 for new parts, the shaking and vibration and the check engine light had better goddamn be over. In fact, it'd better fucking drive like it did the first time I drove it back in 1994.

---

This "mistake" fucks up all my plans. I obviously couldn't go to the lab. I wanted to e-mail the guy running me, but because the fucking modem at home is on the goddamn blink again, I had no fucking idea whether the e-mail went through. And this was about 20 minutes before the session was supposed to start. Luckily the Internet came up in time for me to see that I sent it not once, not twice, but three times. And I'm grateful that he was good in postponing it so I could come in some other time.

The errand for my folks is different. I want to show that I care about The Store and that it's still a viable business entity. But with no car, I had to make up a fucking lie. So after not being able to reach Mother, I called Father and told him that the thing I needed to do after helping him out has been cancelled. Thankfully -- or maybe because he was given some muscle relaxer after visiting the doctor's this morning -- he said I could do it tomorrow.

But will Mother understand? I specifically promised her. So now my lie is this: I was driving when I was told the "session" at the U. was cancelled. Then, I felt some shaking in my car. Having time now, I decide to bring the car in for service. That way I can come back whenever the car is ready -- assuming it's fucking ready. Also, it alleviates me needing to lie some more because the day will end with the truth -- that I'm bringing my car into the shop because it needs fixing.

I still feel bad for not helping out my parents when they asked me to. Hopefully this won't fuck things up. This means I'll have to wake up early tomorrow to do this, meaning I will not have any morning where I can sleep in during this mild, rainy, above-average weather we're having early this week. (I'll be able to sleep in Friday, but it'll be 20 then.) Or, they might've just done it themselves, which frees me to sleep in tomorrow, but proves I'm less dependable. Like my car right now.

$1200. ... What the fuck is wrong with me?

I'm Still Deluding Myself

I was on vacation for a few days last week, and God, I did not miss working at the store. And yet, I did miss working at the store. Because it's closing.

I called in on Sunday, the day after I flew back, to ask Father if he needed help. But I was passive-aggressive about it: I called at around 2, kind of late to be helping out with loading and unloading stuff. I was kind of tired, I just wanted to putz around the house after flying the day before, and there was an article I wanted to file. But the main reason I called so late was because I didn't really want to go in. I could've called when I woke up around 10:30, but I knew that there was little chance he would want me to come in at 2.

I swore, I swear I swore, that I would make it up by coming in to help after my lab work at the U. Monday. But Sunday night Father asked me to go to this place I've never been to, never even heard of, and buy this coil for a stove. That was my ready-made excuse to not work at the store Monday. It was further buttressed Monday morning, when he called and asked if I've gotten the park yet, even though I was actually going to work. No chance I was doing anything but going to this place right after the U., and when I called him from the parking lot to say that I bought the part, he told me to just stay home. Of course, there was a little trickeration there, too: Even though I was let go early, I decided to walk to the campus bookstore to buy a discount ticket to the State Fair (my third one), and along the way I decided to stop and take a 15-minute study outside on campus grounds for a quick five bucks. It was 2:30 by the time I called; again, it was too late to load stuff.

Tuesday I wasn't going to come in at all. It's $2 popcorn Tuesdays at the local Regal. I felt a little guilty ... nah, I really didn't.

And that's why I hate myself. I still feel incredible shock when my parents decided to kill off the store. But if I really cared about it, I'd at the very least help bring it to a dignified end. I'm not. I'm staying away, as far away as possible. And even though I think I want to feel bad about it, I have to admit, I don't really feel that bad at all.

But I do feel bad about not genuinely feeling bad. Go beyond the fact that I'm not backing up my words and feelings with ironclad, substantial action. The store was (it's still viscerally very hard for me to think of the store in the past tense) our family's lifeblood. Giving to it led us to the lifestyle that we have -- solidly middle class, but not living check to check, and having very few problems in getting what we need. It is, like I've said before, the American Dream. If it's going to be brought to an end -- and even though business has been slow, I really think Father wants to retire, or at least do something else -- it should be sent off with as much support as possible.

So what I am doing running away from it? I've worked there on Saturdays and over summers when I was a kid, and I had been filling in for my parents when they vacationed in Vegas. But now when the rubber meets the road, where am I? Sitting in a movie theater, glad I'm not getting dirty and sweaty from hauling shit back and forth. I don't like it. But I am not happy with my attitude about it. It feels wrong. It is wrong.

But ... shit, I don't wanna do this!!! It's hard, it's boring, it takes too long. And ... yes, again it comes back to me. Visiting the store these days is like visiting a dying family member. I remember seeing both of my grandmothers in the hospital. Father's mom, I was not being solemn -- I was more interested in getting cups of pudding from the refrigerator down the hall. And I couldn't wait to get out of the room where Mother's mom was. My instinct is to avoid death at all costs. I think about my own mortality too often already; seeing someone so close to death's door is even more of an unescapable nightmare to me.

And that's how I consider the store these days. I'm going in tomorrow, if Father will let me. I don't like it, but it's been nine days since I last helped out. I know I am not going to like what is different since the last time I was there. What pallets have been removed? What boxes are no longer there? What else has he shut down? I have already seen the closed sign at the store's front door in the middle of the day. If it's shutting down, more pieces will follow. I am not going to take seeing things at the store change well, and if it looks radically different, I swear I think I am going to fucking lose it.

You know, these past few days I've been able to not totally think about the store. Worse, when I do think of it, I'm trying to think of it in the best possible light. For example, I keep breathing a sigh of relief because it hasn't closed yet. Father gave me $60 for the part I bought on Monday; to me, that means that he still has a lot of money coming in, so the store can't be closing. In fact, a part of me still think that the store will still be open -- that I somehow didn't understand Father when he told me the store would close, or maybe Mother changed her mind and decided she didn't want to work for anybody else.

I know -- wishful thinking. I'm lying to myself just so I can believe that everything is staying the same and that my little world is exactly what I think it is and should be. A part of me, the one that cannot change because he knows he would die because he can't adjust, is about to get a very, very rude awakening -- if not in a couple months, when all this is supposed to be over, then tomorrow.

And I, for one, can wait. Because this all sucks.

My Fucking Father Up To His Goddamn Passive-Aggressive Tricks Again

Parents' minivan was in an accident, so My Fucking Father asked me use the car today in order to take it in for an estimate. I assumed that since it's a 2000 Sienna, they'll pay for the damage out-of-pocket and keep the insurance company out of it, so when the guy performing the estimate asked if I wanted aftermarket parts only, I said yes. Fixing the headlight and bumper would cost over two grand.

Told My Fucking Father this over dinner. He asked if these are with new parts. No, I said. "Nooooooooooooooo!" My Fucking Father whined. Crap.

"You want new parts?" I asked, innocently enough, as if I assumed I would get a civilized response in'well, return. It is My Fucking Father, but I'm an optimist that way.

Shouldn't've done that. "Well, we're giving this to insurance, aren't we?" he cried. Man, I fucking hate it when he asks me a question he knows the answer to. Is there any way I could know more about this situation than you do, especially when you didn't fucking tell me you wanted insurance t0 pay for this? Asshole. Turns out that Mother didn't get into an accident; she was parked and some woman, for some unknown reason, drove across grass and plowed right into the car. Geez, if I would've known that, I would have at least asked my folks if this woman's insurance was going to pay. Such logic seems beyond My Fucking Father's comprehension, however.

I wasn't going to put up with his puerile, condescending verbal barrage. Not today, not now, not during this. So I stopped his moaning with, "I want to get this right!" I saw his face change from one of complaining to one of anger. And I was glad, so fucking glad.

I also did the thing he always does, where he gets a verbal shot at me, and before I can say anything back to him, he asks me a question that moves the conversation from finger-pointing to problem-solving. It's a way of controlling the dialogue as well as a rather sleazy way of saying you're above it all when in fact he's not. So after I yelled, "I want to get this right!" and before he could say his stupid thing back, I asked him a question about the estimate he wants redone in order to make it right. God, I love that. I need to do that more often. I'm working on it. I'm trying.

But leave it to the passive-aggressive master, the man I learned all those tricks from, My Fucking Father, to let loose his arsenal. When I gave back to Mother money for the PCA work because I was short, My Fucking Father asked me for a toothpick that was on the sill. To re-establish dominance, of course. The last time he asked me for a toothpick I was six, I think. Shit, I don't remember him using a toothpick this millennium.

And then, while they were washing dishes but I was still eating, My Fucking Father went downstairs, grabbed the clothes hanging where the water heater is (our dryer no longer works -- maybe that should be a blog post) and put them on the living room sofa, clothes hangers still attached. "You're a big boy now, you have to take care of yourself," he sniped. What does leaving them downstairs have anything to do with any perception of my immaturity, you dick? My Fucking Father has never brought up my clothes for me. He only brought those clothes up to say that and get back to me.

And this is what scares me about ... this secret I'm still keeping, as tenuously as I am. Am I going to face more of this bullshit from My Fucking Father now that he'll have more time to tool around the house? I am facing the possibility of being around this asshole more soon, and if this is the way things are trending ... I'll have to leave. I just can't stand to be around this man, even if he is (allegedly) my biological father.

In the meantime, I'll have to passive-aggressively get back at him. I didn't go to the store this afternoon (after the estimate) because I wanted to finally mow the lawn. I was going to make it up to him by helping out tomorrow. I still will ... maybe ... but first I might hit the Borders in Rosedale. See, they're liquidating, so maybe there are some deals to be had. And then I want to cash in on my free chocolate at Godiva; you get one each month if you're a part of their frequent-buyers club. And then I need to pick up that estimate for all-new parts! Instead of 1:30, I'll get there around, oh, 3:30. And I won't call ahead of time. I'll just show up and, with a defiant tone, say, "Well, let's work, for fuck's sake!"

Came home around 1:30 tonight.  My excuse is I was covering the NCAA men's ice hockey championship (won, by the way, by Minnesota-Duluth, in overtime, over Michigan, 3-2).  I just wanted to stay out.
With me working evenings, I haven't spoken much to my 'Rents.  Which I think is a good thing.  But as I was in the bathroom taking a shit, I heard My Fucking Father stomp his feet while going up the stairs and then throw things around in the kitchen.  I've never heard him sounds so brattily, but he is the kind of guy who'll repress things and passive-aggressively get across his displeasure and wounded ego without coming out and saying it.

What's going to happen tomorrow?  If something goes down, I'll let y'all know.

My Father, The Brat (Have I Used This Title Before?)

Oh my fucking God, I am so pissed off and perplexed by My Fucking Father.  Seriously, I cannot see how any other person has a dad as emotionally stunted as this guy is.  Well, there probably are, and there are dads who are much worse.  But reality is he's mine, I live with him, and I wish he were dead.

I've been playing phone tag with this city inspector for awhile.  My Fucking Father has asked me to contact her to arrange a meeting with him because he believes his property is now up to code.  Well, today I gave it a shot, and this was the first time I got her on the phone live, no voicemail.  I wanted to see if there were any other questions she might have before arranging this meeting.  She said she was skeptical that the house was up to code -- specifically, that the house's windows were reglazed already, and well before she was to reinspect the house in May.

Meanwhile I heard the beeps of an incoming call.  How in the fuck am I in the middle of two calls at the same time for the second time this month?  After hanging up with the inspector, I call back the number, which was my parent's work.

Just by coincidence, it was My Fucking Father.  He called to say that he wanted to know if I was leaving the house because there was medicine that was ready for pick-up.  Well, as long as I had him on the phone, I told him that I called the city inspector and she was ready and willing to move up the meeting a month to see if the building was ready as he said.

Knowing a person for decades, you can tell when he's about to do something -- particularly, at least in my case, when he's about to get mad.  For My Fucking Father, he starts to breath heavily, and just before his outburst, his breaths become even louder and shorter, like he's gasping for air.  And he is, because when he starts yelling at me, he says, in Chinese, "Son. ..."

This stupid time he followed up "Son" with some babbling bullshit about not understanding him.  Apparently he thought that he told me to set up a meeting with the city inspector so she could go around telling him what exactly needs to be done.  But he couldn't tell me calmly that I misunderstood (according to him).  No, for him, My Fucking Father, who, by the way, is 66 years old, this was the right time to fly off the handle.  He shouldn't have been yelling at me regardless; no purported adult should.  But over this?  Over ... shit, I could barely understand it myself ... this asshole thinks I told the inspector something different from what he thought he told me?  Never mind the understanding part; you flip out over that?

He tops it with his usual passive-aggressive, wounded lion trick: "Never mind, forget it!" he says, giving up because I supposedly failed him and now all is lost.  He pulls this drama all the time, even though this is some mundane property code violation inspection.  I am so, so angrered by the way he verbally abused me today.  But as I get older, and as he gets older, I'm absolutely amazed that he keeps throwing these temper tantrums whenever I tell him something that disappoints or upsets him.  He's done that forever, and I keep thinking that he'll just get to fucking tired to do shit like that, but he's not.

And this is the day after I drove through a snowstorm to pick his ass up from the airport.  This is the thanks I get?  Ungrateful bastard.

As I've gotten older I have talked back to him whenever he does this.  Here, as he hung up on me, I told him, "Stop being a little bitch!"  But the anger and humiliation I always feel after meltdowns like this still well up inside me, and I feel it even more acutely as I write about this right now.  My need for revenge is something I know I got from My Fucking Father.  I hate it.  But right now I know of no other way I can express my deep disatisfaction with the way he treated me.

But I was at a loss for what I could do to get back at him after My Fucking Father's disrepecting me.  All I could do was shovel.  I could've just left it, but as I have learned from my old man, passive-aggressiveness means that you do make some benevolent gesture.  Besides, I might need to drive out the next couple days and I needed to know what exactly needed shoveling.

Five-and-a-half inches of snow.  Goddamn, winter's not done with us yet.  And it's the wet snow, the heart attack snow.  I tried pushing it from one side of the driveway to the other, but halfway through I got stuck.  It was too heavy.  That's when I needed to use the snowblower.  But after two passes up and down the driveway, it conked out.  My Fucking Father bought this thing.  I want everybody to know that.

I promised I'd do as much shoveling as I could before coming in for the start of the 5:30 national news or my heart gave out, whichever came first.  When it was 5:28 I went inside, but I left the garage door open and the snowblower plugged in, just in case I still had time to clear the driveway before the 'Rents came home and if it miraculously started working, even though I kept trying to restart it.  I didn't care if I left the snowblower in this somewhat pathetic repose as I stepped inside.  In fact, I was going to clear a little bit of the patio on the way to the propane burner after I sat down and rested.  I didn't care if they saw the snowblower just left out.  I have a feeling that My Fucking Father would feel disappointment and shame to see that it wasn't working.  Shit, I didn't care if the snowblower got stolen while I was inside.

Well, coincidentally enough, they came home while I was inside.  "Is the snowblower not working?" Mother said at the front door.  "No!" I replied at the back door.

He didn't talk to me at all during dinner.  Asshole.  He was still his jovial self to Mother, though, as if he didn't remember, or didn't care, that he yelled at me over the phone earlier that afternoon.  Asshole.  I'll be honest with you, that still hurts me, and that still irks me.  I need to let him know how I feel; it's the lesson My Fucking Father taught me most and best of all.  But how?

The only thing I could think of, at least today, was to go back outside after dinner and throw a couple piles of snow at the driver's-side door.  I've cleared the path from the front door to the car, for the most part, but hopefully My Fucking Father would have to step into snow to get in the minivan and get his heretofore clean shoes dirty.

And how about the city inspector?  I want to defy his "Never mind!  Forget it!" brattiness and not forget it.  But then again, I don't want to be manipulated by any reverse psychology if he truly does want me to arrange a meeting with her.  Shit, I don't know what to do.  I think I'll sleep on it, but my plan now is this: I'll call up the city inspector tomorrow.  Hopefully I'll get her voicemail.  I will apologize for the message I left her after My Fucking Father yelled at me, telling her that it was all a mix-up.  And then I will say that My Fucking Father wants to take over this message relay.  I will leave her his number and tell her that he now wants to talk to her face-to-face, broken English be damned.  If he thinks he's the only person who can do things right, he can do this his goddamn self.

I Fucking Walked Into Another One!

I was torn about going to work out today.  I wasn't planning on it, because I wanted to see Chuck, Hawai'i Five-O (which turned out to be a re-run, boo) and maybe The Cape if I were awake.  But I wasn't planning on using the car, either.

That changed when Mother told me to cash a check.  Well, shit then, if I'm going all the way up to the bank, then I might as well go to the nearest comic book shop and buy the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.  I wound up driving for 63 miles.  That, plus the TV on tonight that I wanted to watch, plus the price of gas, plus My Fucking Father bitching at me about going out all the time (even though it's just exercising), is making me start to ration my trips to the gym.

In the end, even though I had the car out, I put it back in the garage.  I really want to go work out (and go out) Friday, so I'd better keep the peace at home and stay home tonight.  But ... I have mapped things out.  I haven't worked out since Thursday.  I could go work out tomorrow, but there is a concert in St. Paul I want to go to, and if I leave too late, I won't exercise tomorrow.  Plus, there's America's Next Top Model on Wednesday.  Moreover, the forecast calls for snow Thursday.  It's possible I could go a week without working out, which is not good.  So, I told myself that if things "go wrong" at home, and I get pissed off at home, I could certainly take out my car again and just fucking go.

Turns out My Fucking Father was in a bad mood -- which put me in a bad mood.  The first thing he says to me as he comes home is whether I called the guy in Vegas.  "What guy?" I ask.  He's fucking crazy.

Furthermore, Grandmother was at her worst tonight.  (First of all, this evening, when I went into her room for testing, I was taken aback by a smell of what I believe is puke.  I couldn't smell it again.  Maybe it was her breath.  Anyway, a little Febreze and it was gone.)  For some reason the microwave didn't heat up the noodles we were eating.  And as he always fuckin' does, he blames Grandmother.  He actually might be right in this case; the knobs had been twiddled with so that it was at its lowest setting when it should be at its highest.

Both Mother and My Fucking Father were at their most diffident tonight.  A bad sign: They didn't stick around to wash our dishes.  So, I girded myself: If either of my folks set me off, just go.  Working out is good for me.  The new shows can wait.

I needed to make absolutely sure My Fucking Father wanted me to do something he really asked me to do before, but I just forgot.  So after I got done eating, I went downstairs to My Fucking Father, who was toiling away at the computer.  I was really prepared for the worst because, just before I came down, Grandmother, who compounded both of my parents' ire by slowly waddling around the kitchen cooking up her own food, thought it was a good time to ask Mother for money.

So I go down, check in hand, to My Fucking Father.  I ask who the hell is he talking about.  He gives me another name of an owner in his association who has multiple properties and therefore makes his pants tighten, if you know what I mean.  Then, as I was about to bolt, he asks me if I'm working tomorrow because he wants me to re-roast the pork.

And then, goddammit, for whatever reason, he asks me to look for a job or go back to school.  What in the fuck made you think that was the right time to ask such a stupid question?!?!?!

I was so afraid that he would just fucking ambush me like that, I had the urge to just punch him in the fucking face and immediately leave for the community center.  And I announced it, to which he whined in his patented way (in Chinese), "Well, if you want to go, then go!"  I should have mocked him by repeated what he said in my mocking voice, but I was so mad that he humiliated me.  Fuck, I even gave him the keys Mother left in the doorknob and he told me to put it on the sill -- another fucking way he humilated me!!

But I'm trying to control my temper; lashing out at this wound to my pride wasn't going to get any better if I act as immaturely as My Fucking Father.  I had to think.  I already put the car away.  I really wanted to see TV.  I want to go out Friday.  And I didn't really feel like going out, loud protestations aside.  So after going upstairs to change and get ready to leave, I changed my mind, went back downstairs, locked the front door and announced, loudly, that I was staying in.  Yeah, I showed him, that motherfucker.

Besides, if I wanted payback, there are better ways to do it than spending gas on the way to exercise.  I don't really have to work tomorrow.  I planned on going to a movie.  What if I stay out after that?  Maybe I should.  And that concert tomorrow?  It is late, so maybe I'll come back at, oh, midnight.  And I'll stay out till 1 on Friday.  And I'll just say I called that guy in Vegas when I'll "forget."

Best of all, I'll get back at My Fucking Father by not looking for a job or going back to school.  How do you like them apples, ambushing patriarch?

Not At My Best Today

My taking care of Grandmother is really fucking with my sleep schedule. No need to set an alarm nowadays; Grandmother weakly tapping her fingernails on my door is enough to wake me up -- and start my day off on a frazzled and irritated note. Thus I do my best to sleepwalk, to function as much as I need to in order to give her her insulin shot without waking up too many parts of my brain. Otherwise I'll be on all morning. That might be good on days where I have to go into the lab, but on weekends, it just fucks me up badly.

I had chores I wanted to do today -- not because I think they needed to be done, but because I wanted to prove to Father that I'm doing work around the house. That wasn't enough of a reason for me to stay up; I went back to sleep, figuring I'd wake up whenever.

Whenever wasn't when I heard the door chime because someone came in; it was minutes after that, when Grandmother rapped my door like a cat would again. When I came out, she asked me, "Going anywhere today?"

Ugh. I know what's coming:

"No."

"Can you take this meat to your aunt's?"

Shit. It's one of those days where I don't feel I need to go out, which makes it much easier not to spend gas or money. But her friend came by with food he or she bought -- her friends always do that -- and she's being so generous she's making me change clothes to give this food she got for free to someone else.

Still groggy, I found an excuse to not immediately bolt for the garage: The Miami Heat-Bastard Seattle SuperSonics game was in the final minutes. Ooh, had to see that while changing.

When that game got done, I finally had the energy to get out of my room. There, as I was reaching over the dinner table to grab the food that I need to deliver to my aunt and uncle, Grandmother said, "She's coming over. You don't need to drive to her place and give it to her." And immediately I started to whine -- "Then why did you make me get up and get dressed when I don't have to do anything? I've had to get all prepared and now you tell me that's all for nothing??" I even went back into my room and came out again to yell at her some more because I wasn't satisfied with the amount I yelled at her the first time. I don't like it when my plans change once, let alone twice. But looking back on it, goddamn I was so immature about it. Having my plans change twice meant I got to do what I wanted to do before, which was stay home. And besides, it wasn't a big deal. So what? Man, sometimes I hate myself.

So I'm in this immature state and I decide to climb back on the bed. At this point it's a quarter to 3; I assume that I still have time to either take out a pail and water to clean the plant or go outside and chop down the snowbank. Till then, I'll just watch St. John's upset Duke and the beginning of the Celtics-Lakers game.

Then I hear the door open again. Didn't think they'd be home this early ... whoops. Well, no use doing chores for show now. Father did not yell at me ... and so I start questioning myself again. You know, I could have done something. That plant does need to be cleaned; that snowbank could use some decking. Felt so bad that it spurred me to hang up all the newly-washed clothes that I threw on the ground, and restart taping up my Entertainment Weeklys.

All in all, I could've been better. Instead of lazing around, there were things I could do and, just as important, I could've not acted like a little bitch when I was asked -- not told, asked -- to do something I didn't want to do.

Father Wants To Get Into The Modem Business

I went downstairs because Mother needed help turning on the computer and Internet connection -- huh? -- when I saw a modem.

I assume My Fucking Father brought it home because he finally got fed up with all the times the modem I bought, the second I bought since we went to broadband, disconnected. It's hard to describe because I don't think this happens to anybody else, but at times, the modem will lose the signal or thing it gets from the Internet and disconnect. Sometimes it comes back, but sometimes it stubbornly goes haywire. It's distressing to see the Internet light on the modems I've had blink, then disappear, then reappear as a red light, then as a green one before blinking and starting the frustrating cycle all over again.

I had been on the phone with my ISP when it first happened, and the Indian rep told me that I had to exchange modems because the first one has had a history of dropping connections. But soon after I installed the second it also happened, so that's bullshit. I'm convinced it's not the modem. If it happens to a second modem, it's not the modem, it's the socket or the wiring. I really think it's because the house or its wiring is so old that it can't maintain connection to the Internet, especially when it goes on for a while or if it's really hot, the two conditions seemingly always present when the damn modem goes on the blink.

For some reason, however, one thing seems to fix it. The ISP person wanted me to test the modem by putting it in other phonejacks. I noticed that after I did that to both my modems, then put it back to where it was, the connection turned out fine, and it stayed fine. So now, after I look at my laptop and see there's no connection, then make sure the internet light on the modem is in fact not solid green, I unplug the whole thing, go into Mother's office, plug it into the power strip and phone jack, wait for half a minute, then take the modem back into the computer room. And except for one weird time, it works.

My Fucking Father doesn't know that. Maybe I told him, but if I did, he didn't care to listen. He thinks it's the modem I bought, which is bullshit, because the problem's with the wiring, which is the house, so it's his goddamn fault.

Oh, another thing: Over the summer he had me dump air conditioning water. Yeah, our HVAC system is so old that when we needed to cool off, the water generated to cool the house down didn't drain to some standpipe in the bottom of our house, but instead through a hose My Father had to connect it to. The other end sat in a pail in the middle of the HVAC room, and every, oh, six hours it would get full, so we had to make sure we took that pail and poured it down the drain. I'm definitely sure no other family with its shit together has to do that. But we do. So it's alright that we have to make sure we pour water waste down the sink, but dealing with a sometimes-spotty Internet means My Fucking Father has to get a brand-new modem? Fuck you, Father.

That's one reason why I got so apoplectic when I saw this modem in the computer room. There may be more, but after I calmed down, I noted the triggers to this:

• This shows My Fucking Father doesn't trust me, or thinks I'm stupid; his judgemental actions have always pissed me off;
• Doing this is a way to show me up -- "I know how to do this";
• He gave up on me -- "I gave you a chance to fix this, but now that you've failed, it's my turn";
• He once again is wading into territory he doesn't fully understand, though that has never stopped him;
• I paid for the modem that still works (I should ask for a refund if he goes through with this);
• I consider this an invasion of my privacy; while him fucking rearranging my room was an invasion of my physical space, this is an intrusion into what I feel is my responsibility and, compared with everyone else living here, my area of expertise -- both things that are mine, I believe;
• And, finally and most importantly, I think this is a way to control me and force me to leave the house.  I pay for Internet.  If he puts this modem in, he can say that he bought the modem, therefore he can dictate how it's used -- and, in my case, when.  If he wants it unplugged overnight so I can't "work," it's his modem, his rules.  Never mind that I pay for the house Internet.  If he takes this away from me, I truly am not at peace in this house.  And then My Fucking Father could throw me out.

To get back at him, I marched upstairs to the deck with his precious modem.  Even though my brother was talking to him, I didn't give a shit about making a scene.  "Just to let you know," I stammered, fumbling through my words, goddammit, "You're going to get the same problems with this modem as you do with mine."  To which he meekly said, "OK," in that tone of voice where you know he's ignoring and will do whatever the fuck he wants.  Once again, Fuck you, Father.

Just for that, I stayed out till 2 in the morning, then came storming down the stairs and into the computer room once I got back.  Well, at least he hasn't switched modems yet.  However, the computer was still on, and I saw the master bedroom was ajar.  Huh?  It kind of looked like there was some kind of incident or something.

My Run-In With The Po-Po

It was going to happen at some point.

First of all, it's been awhile since I "spoke" to a police officer. I've cut down on my speeding in my old age, but I knew in the back of my mind I'd see them in that capacity again.

Also, it was inevitable that I get caught idling at the airport. I don't know how it's done anywhere else, but at MSP, people park their cars on the curb of the terminal all the time. It was a time-honored tradition that even 9/11 hasn't really stopped, even though we're now aware we're kind of breaking the law then.

We have two terminals here. They used to be called Humphrey and Lindbergh; now they're Terminal 1 and Terminal 2. They changed that because the names confused too many people. I think the numbers are more confusing. It hasn't stopped people from parking on the curb regardless of the names of the terminals because it's so convenient to pick up your pick-ups that way. It's worth getting caught rather than being proper about it an having a tired passenger walk a mile to a parking ramp with their luggage in tow.

It's kind of different with the much smaller Terminal 2; it's less crowded and more intimate, so you don't have the crowd to deal with. I've actually parked my car there for 20 minutes without a soul bothering me. However, I always feel that it gives any police in the area less ground to cover and more time to give any offender a ticket. It cuts both ways, but again, because it's so danged easy, I always park on the curb.

Well, last night I got caught. I thought I was going to be late, actually, because I had to gas up my parents' minivan. But Father called me about three minutes before I got to the airport, which I reached a bit past 11, which was when the flight was supposed to land. Because I thought everything was going to be OK, and because I thought my parents would be coming down the escalator at any point, I parked my car alongside the curb, went into the airport, and stood around, waiting for them.

And I waited for a long time. There were people coming down, possibly for another flight that came in at around the same time. But I didn't expect to wait for about 15 minutes. I looked outside ... and that's when I saw the flashing lights of a cop car. Shit!

I run outside. There was no mistake; the cop was outside looking at my car. Now, I have a huge problem dealing with authority, especially policemen. I remember a couple times being pulled over for speeding and the cops being assholes pulling a power trip on me. I will never forget how small and helpless they made me. Whatever I said, I learned that it wasn't any use. So to me, once I saw the cop looking at my car, and once he asked me for my license, I thought that was it: I'm getting a ticket for leaving my car on the curb. I got caught.

So my reaction, one borne of frustration and, I'll admit, a little immaturity, I throw my car keys on the ground. I'll be honest: If he's going to give me a ticket, why do I care about being civil? It didn't help when the other cops humiliated me while giving me speeding tickets.

"You don't have to throw your keys on the ground," the cop said.

Oh-oh. Could he give me a ticket for unsportsmanlike conduct, or some non-sports equivalent of that? "Frustration. I'm having a bad day," I blurted out in "defense."

"Pick up your keys. Pick up your keys," he repeated, calmly, after I gave him my license. In retrospect, he could've been a dick about it, but he didn't. Instead, after he cleared me, he needed to know about the car: "Now, show me the insurance for the car and I'll let you go."

OK. Now, where do my parents put the insurance? I opened up the passenger-side door and start looking everywhere. It wasn't in the glove compartment -- shit. Could it be hidden somewhere in the mirrors? Yes -- but there are, like, three of them, and I'll be damned, they're all expired. The latest one expired on the 28th.

I kid you not, I was there for five minutes looking for an up-to-date insurance card. I don't know how it looked to the other people trying to leave the terminal; hopefully they just swore at me under their breath and totally forgot about me once they took off. Meanwhile, I was thinking about my parents finally coming out and looking at this cop checking out their car. When were they coming, anyway?

Thankfully, after I gave up and decided to come out of the car, my parents were standing right there. Is everything OK, they basically said, to which I and the cop said we need to find the insurance. I didn't know the cop would take the one that expired on the 28th; he just had to go into his cop car and have it checked out. Parents were worried I got a ticket, and why I left the car turned off for so long. Beyong blurting out, "I don't know, why did you call me 15 minutes before actually coming out?" I didn't want to say anything that'll get me trouble with the policeman.

He got out of the car, tossed the insurance card Father's way, said, "OK," then went inside, as if he got a call to investigate something at the baggage carousel he was walking towards.

"That's it?" Father said.

"Yep," the cop replied, without breaking stride on his way inside, barely making eye contact.

And off we went, after waiting a bit for the cars to leave and open a path out. In the past, I could've gone on about it, thereby starting a blame game I subconsciously wanted, but I didn't. I hope that's a good thing.

Father did ask what happened before they got there. After I told him, he said that the cop was "crazy." Well, he wasn't. I had no ill intentions, of course, but to the policeman, he saw a car that was completely stopped and had no driver in or around it. He could've thought it was left there with bombs stored inside, kind of like Times Square.

He did the right thing, and I would've done exactly the same thing. Now, I still don't like the interaction with the cop, but he wouldn't have been doing his job if he didn't ask me for license and registration, and I would've bitched if I heard he didn't do to somebody else what he did to me last night.

I'm just glad I didn't get a ticket. I hope this doesn't happen the next time I park next to the curb at the airport.

Missing The Preakness For A Suit?

After driving around for errands and marking time, I go home absolutely exhausted. I want to pass out on my bed before dinner, probably while watching the Preakness Stakes.

But do I get to go home to happy parents, or at least quiet ones? No. They weren't yelling at me, but they were annoying me nonetheless. Why? Because they went to Kohl's and Father just bought a suit for dirt cheap. You wanna see the suit? (Do I have a choice? It's either this or I get thrown out of the hosue.)

Now, you want a suit, don't you? Yeah, you want a suit! (Again, I don't have a choice.) It's a nice suit, but I don't have a compelling reason to buy one beyond the purported fact that it's on sale. But, to make them happy -- well, actually, not to piss them off -- I say yes. OK, let's go! (What, you mean now? I'm tired!) Well, OK, but that means I'm gonna exercise! (OK, Mother.)

I should've thought through the ramifications, but I wanted to get to bed so bad because my brain had already shut down. I was maybe hoping, probably thinking that I would wake up at 5 because that's when I set my phone alarm to, then I'll watch the Preakness. Didn't really matter if we went to Kohl's before or after dinner, I'll be able to watch what I want to watch and get what I consider to be a family errand done.

But after successfully passing out, I heard a knock on the door. I open the door: "What?" And it's My Father, reading something at the dinner table, telling me to get ready. Again, I should've realized that by not going now I ran into the possibility of being made to go during the Preakness. So I look at the cell; it's a quarter to 5. Post time for the race is 5:18. There's no way we'll get back in time. And so I'm already pissed.

One of the things that most pains me about being these people's child is they don't give a shit when I want to delay doing something because of something on TV. It's the fucking Preakness, for crissake, why can't go after it's over? My parents are incredibly unsentimental, especially when it comes to me.

So I'm frustrated about what I'm about to do. Add that I'm still waking from a deep nap, and I'm running on red. It's the kind of attitude I feel I need when I think My Fucking Father is coming down on me and I need to fight back. I angrily get dressed when I hear another thing that sets me off: I'm driving. Wait a second ... this is your idea, and you're making me drive? Call me an asshole, but I don't think I have to. When I get outside Mother tells me they have no room in their minivan. Whatever -- I have shit in my car and the antenna makes this whirring sound because it can't retract, and my parents are going to find out and they'll start yelling at me. That's why I hate being with them in such a confined space for so long: Nothing comes from it. As she's trying to explain and/or apologize, I clean up the backseat, like a brat. My years of living with them girded me to the potential of a fight; credit to them, possibly, for holding their tongues.

And maybe this is a sign of my maturity and/or world-weariness, but I kind of calmed down as soon as we got to Kohl's. Despite the henpecking and oddly busy traffic, once I got into the store, I had to face the fact that there was very little I could do. And if there is something I could do, I'll need to be calm, not only because I might need to excuse myself but also it helps to think when you're not panicking.

I didn't get the suit color I wanted; the only color of the brand Father recommended came in black, and hopefully the striped one I got complements the unstriped one I already have. I did my best to be helpful and not a dick. That might have helped me get the process of selecting a suit go a lot faster. If I were younger, I would have been an asshole about it.

After I picked the suit out, a thought came to me. Why don't I excuse myself, like I need to go to the bathroom, and I'll sneak out to the car to listen to the race on the radio? I looked at my watch: 5:24. They never fire off the race at post time, so I have a chance. I tell Father I have to use the bathroom, and I bolt out the door!

Neither parent sees me, thank Buddha. I get in through the passenger's side and turn on the radio. I don't hear the game in any of the three available sports-talk radio stations in the area, just the chatter of the heads. However, one of them said that, just then, Lookin At Lucky won the Preakness. Guess my ploy of hearing the race on the radio didn't work because I couldn't hear it on the radio ... which means I should be upset at my parents for pulling me out to Kohl's around the time of the race.

Whatever. Thank Buddha for the Internet, for I was able to watch the Preakness late last night, in its entirety. I kind of was assuming in the back of my head that, if worst comes to worst, I'd be able to see it on replay. It doesn't beat seeing it in real time, plus it was a pretty good race. But at least I didn't miss it. And I hope I've grown up enough to remember that.

Dammit! Too Late!

I am convinced more than ever that My Fucking Father loves to play mind games. Still manipulative, still passive-aggressive, still too damn stubborn to put his toys away and be a grown-up for goddamn once.

Because of his machinations I try and only ask Mother for things when he's not around. I do that especially when it comes to money and employment, two sources of high tension between us. I just can't talk about around him without him going all batshit crazy. However, sometimes I have to talk, so I wait until he's out of earshot.

For example, tonight. I needed the pay stub from my last bi-weekly check. Mother takes care of cashing the check, and she gives me my wages in straight cash, homie. But in asking for the stub (not the money, mind you, just the stub), I know that My Fucking Father would start to ask his goddamn questions about, "When are you going to find a job?" and "Why don't you go back to school?" And I have to start defending myself and yelling just to get him off my back.

Compounding this is that I needed the stub tonight because I needed to send it tonight. I know there weren't many opportunities to ask Mother one-on-one for it, but after dinner My Fucking Father went outside to the driveway to do something. This was my chance! I darted out of my bedroom to the kitchen, where Mother was whipping up smoothies for us.

"Do you have the pay stub?"

What followed, as typical of Mother in retrospect even though I didn't think she would, was ask a litany of questions. Apparently, asking her for something reminds her of questions she's wanted to ask for some time. Like she wanted permission to ask them. But she did -- "Why is the amount of the check different? How much are you giving Grandmother? Do you need the money right now?" Innocuous questions under a different situation. But by extending the conversation well beyond its needed length, My Fucking Father had the time to come back in. When he saw that Mother was talking about money and employment, he leaned back on his old, stupid question when he wanted to ambush me, "Why don't you find a job?"

Fuck you, Father. And goddammit, Mom, all I wanted was for you to say yes and then slip me the pay stub surreptitiously and without stirring up the curiorisities of Father. Now he has to lay into me again, and our relationship is back in the shitter. I stayed out later than I planned because of that fucking son-of-a-bitch.

You wanna know how paranoid I am? Every time I come home late at night I open up their car door to make sure they're not taking away any of my stuff, whether it be papers or magazines. Tonight the minivan door was locked. I thought about it going into the house -- thought about the fight My Fucking Father started, thought how much of a brat he probably is tonight, thought that he really is taking some of my shit away, and thought that I had to be as immature as he is because he is essentially stealing my stuff.

So I decided that, to make absolutely sure he isn't, I would unlock the doors, take my parents' keys, open the door and look inside. I was going to make up an excuse of going into my own trunk and throwing something into their van to dump, but really, I didn't have an excuse and I don't really give a shit if they're mad that I went back outside and opened up their door. By the way, none of my stuff is in there.

Man, why is My Fucking Father such a nag? He's like a woman. He should have been born a woman; that way, Mother could have married a real man, and I would be a real man instead of a frightened, emotionally stunted and unstable man-child. Like My Fucking Father.

Oh, now you wanna be a little bitch, Father? I always get snippy when you fucking nag about recycling the papers, so deal with the piddles of newsprint I put out this week, bitch. So you're just anticipating my enmity for you when I stand around and even extend my hand for the rag to wipe down the table when you just fucking do it yourself? Even Mother noticed I wanted to help, but you were like "No!" like a baby.

Fuck you. God, how much I fucking hate you. ...