Maxigumee

I know that this site is becoming a kind of marathon of whining, pissing, and moaning. And oh, God, am I sick of it by now. I am so sick of it that I want to toss my own leg into a paper shredder shouting, “shut the bloody hell up, you pathetic idiot!” ….Ooooh, alliteration!…. Uh— but really. I complain a ton in real life, and that’s obviously what I do in internet-life, too. It’s either photoshoots or annoying complaints on the menu. I mean, some writers are good at whining. They make an art of it. But for me, a person who has trouble throwing a witty sentence together, I’m sure that it’s more of an atrocity than an art. —I really just want to slap myself for keeping up this alliteration thing (and the self mutilation thing), but it’s fun to write. Right. Onward to the usual lineup of rants.

I am growing bored by that fact that I probably talk about the cleanliness of my home more than anything on this site, but it is honestly a reoccurring problem in my life. The house was so nice an orderly and smell-goody when my sister, my mother, and I got back form our vacation in the Thousand Islands. It was a relief to not have my father there making the air tense with his presence. My mother commented on easy it was unpacking and cleaning up without him lying around. It was a nice, quiet, and clean few hours in the home before my father finally arrived at the house around eight-ish.

Now it’s every day that I see him on his bottom, resting in a chair wearing clothes that haven’t been cleaned in God knows how long, reading his newspapers. It is not difficult to imagine the image with flies swarming all around it, eating away at the unmoving (besides the fingers turning the pages) body. Besides the times when he gets up to eat some Ben&Jerry’s out of the freezer or to throw a hissy fit about a lost object, he is either sitting in front of the newspaper or the computer. Whenever I attack my father with complaints about his sloppiness around the house, he usually tries to point out that much of the mess is the rest of the family’s and that we should be the ones cleaning up. I checked and the mess is sooooo only his. Newspapers strewn over the inappropriately large coffee table and floor, cups and bowls left out….

I’m not going to say that the mess that is filling up the house right now is all his, it is sort of a group effort going on right now, but he is obviously the catalyst in the reaction. My theory is that once one part goes bad, the rest of the parts think that it’s perfectly alright to do so also and join in. Or perhaps they just think that resistance is futile, or something like that.

I will admit that I am somewhat lazy myself. When I am not sitting in front of the computer or television screen, you will probably find me doing something equally as unproductive. But really. He’s and adult! (Please, adults reading this, don’t get the wrong idea, I’m just throwing words around, really.) He should be out playing golf or something! Not sitting inside catching up on current events! I’m serious, he is addicted to the newspapers. He piles them around himself, along with all his other crap, while sitting lazily in his chair and consumes them one after another. Cover to cover, front to back. If it were possible to melt newspaper into some sort of fluid and shoot it into your veins, my father would be first in line getting his fix. I often tell my father that I am so scarred from his obsessive newspaper reading that I will never subscribe to a newspaper for as long as I live. Even the smell of newspapers, that horrible, rotting smell, makes me nauseated.

This is not the only problem. YES, I am going to continue with this pointless and probably extremely irritating line of complaints. If you have gotten this far in this post already, or still even read this website, you are quite amazing. That or you have absolutely no life. Give yourself a pat on that back.

The second problem is that along with being spine-tinglingly (hee, that sounds funny) untidy, this house hardly seems like a home anymore. —Oh dear, I’m quoting songs now, too. Somebody stop me!— My family keeps holding these really unbearable political meetings in our house every tuesday evening. For those few hours, usually from seven until ELEVEN, my home becomes a hot madhouse full of noisy, shouting political people. Not only do these people come over for the weekly meetings, but I often wake up to find a few of them busy with campaign work downstairs in the morning. You know how terrible it is when you do something very embarrassing only to find out that there is somebody else in the house? It’s kind of like that. Except that it’s all the time.

And on top of all of this. On top of every single annoying thing that’s been going on in this house. On top of that, my father put my clothes in the dryer yesterday. He never admitted to it, but tell me, when in the history of humankind, have five or so pairs of pants dried simply by hanging in three hours? When I accused him of doing this horrible, horrible deed, he simply looked down with an evil smile spread across his face. After all of the times! If you’ve been patient enough to be a frequent reader of this site, I know that you’ve probably read about my very specific clothes-washing procedures and how my father refuses to respect them. I don’t care what people say, the clothing SHRINKS in the dryer. I yelled at my father as he left, “If you put my clothing in the dryer one more time, I will chop off your head and feed it to wild dogs!” I am obviously exaggerating a bit, but I will be very, very, very mad.