I had a long post written for yesterday. Copied and pasted into a word document, single-spaced, it was over 5 pages long. What started out as a somewhat-clever conceit filled with jokes and self-deprecation at my displeasure at living at home snowballed into a self-serving venting rant, the bulk of which can be summed up in a few sentences, and its easy to infer why I'm going batshit insane while living at home.
1. Due to medical conditions of my sister and father, and their inabilites to ever have a drink for the rest of their respected lives, I'm not allowed to have alcohol in the house, or go out drinking, or mention my desire for an alcoholic beverage, in order not to tempt them or make them feel as though they are missing out on anything. However, living at home is probably the best case for me ever turning alcoholic.
2. The pipes to the toilet are leaking, dripping over my parents bed. My father insists adamently that it is merely condensation, and refuses to call a plumber. Instead, I dragged their mattress onto the living room floor, where it is only feet away from my room. As a result, whatever privacy I ever had is now gone. Not only am I allowed to be online at night anymore (my typing is too loud, the chair sometimes squeaks, and even with the lights off, the glare from the screen makes it hard for my dad to sleep), I haven't been able to jerk off properly in over a week.
3. I was originally supposed to go to Madison for a few days this week, to get my resume polished, find a sublet for next semester, get drunk and hopefully get laid, all-in-all alleviating my bad mood, refreshing my spirit. But that's not going to happen, due to point 4.
4. Politely put, my father has a problem listening to authority (other than President Bush, of course), and apparently logic and medical technology cannot stop him from eating what he wants. A smarter man would realize that after being hospitalized about every other month for his bad dietary decisions, he should maybe start listening to his doctor, his dietary consultant, or even the nurses at the hospital.
This weekend he decided to eat an entire bag of potato chips in one sitting. While that's a poor choice for anyone, it's about eight times as poor of a choice for someone with gastropareisis and diabetes, someone on a low-fat, low-sodium, low-fiber diet who needs to eat 6 small meals throughout the day and can't eat anything crunchy or hard to digest, like fried foods or peanuts.
His hospitalization came at no surprise to anyone but himself. However, since we pointed out what a bad idea it was for him to be eating so many chips, he threw a fit in the style of a two-year old, decrying the company for filling the bag with so much air and arguing that each of my sisters had a handful, and that he is being martyred. I don't see how he could have been surprised when we all predicted it the day before, and told him so. I guess he was too worried about puffing his chest out and screaming until his face was red.
His hospitalization may have fixed some things (my mom called someone to take a look at the toilet this afternoon, and with various hospital visits I have more time at home for leisurely wanks) but my trip to Madison was postponed yet again, and I'm slowly but surely going out of my mind in this stupid town.
