Imbecile Relocation Program: Part Three

Dad was standing in his apartment’s kitchen. Glaring at me he snarled, “You’re a drunk.”

I am not a drunk. I wasn’t drunk. In fact I hadn’t had a beer all day. Ignoring him, I continued jamming things into boxes and securing the lids with packing tape. Being the unorganized oaf that he is Dad didn’t have anywhere near enough boxes on hand for the move to Idaho. Mumbling another insult at me I decided enough was enough. Standing up I turned around and walked from his living room to the kitchen. I got in his face. “There is something you haven’t been able to figure out because you’re so fucking stupid. You need me. I don’t need you. I don’t have to be here, I don’t have to help you. So why are you constantly fucking with me? Get that through your noggin you asshole.”

Slamming the door behind me I walked down flights of stairs to ground level. Wandering through a maze of apartment buildings I eventually found my way out to the parking lot. It was late at night. Early tomorrow morning we were supposed to leave for Idaho. I seriously considered ditching out on Dad. I mean, fuck him. I have stuck with him for months and all he’s been doing the whole time is cut me down. But then I thought if I can somehow make it through the next two days my father will be far away and I won’t have to deal with him anymore if I don’t want to.

My car took me to a nearby grocery store like it was on autopilot. I went inside to their produce department. I found a clerk and asked him for as many apple and banana boxes as he could scrounge. He was a nice guy, I ended up with a little over a dozen apple boxes. They are sturdy and most excellent for moving purposes. After loading them into my car I drove home to try and get some sleep.


~ by factorypeasant on August 11, 2006.

One Response to “Imbecile Relocation Program: Part Three”

  1. i woulda ditched that prick

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