Do you have that parental figure that is always always ALWAYS pestering you, even when you did everything that was asked of you? You know, the one who is so frustrated with their own life that they take it out on their kids with harsh words like these:
“Okay, so I asked you to take the trash out, and you didn’t.”
Mom, there’s a tornado mixed with a blizzard going on outside right now.
“Don’t make excuses! I asked you to do something and you didn’t. You are disrespecting my authority!”
But mom, we’re legitly barricaded into our house by walls of fire and acid rain. There’s a chasm in our driveway that I just CANNOT get over.
“This is why we shouldn’t have had kids. Obviously I’m a bad parent. Those blahblahblah kids wake up every morning BEFORE SCHOOL and milk a barn full of cows, and you can’t even take out the fucking trash.”
Mom, I swear I would, but we’re all trapped under a collapsed ceiling. There’s a barrage of zombies and
fat people and Al Capone out there, and I am not risking my life for this.
“Uh, none of this ever woulda happened if you had just taken the trash out in the first place.”
BAM! DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT? My own mother just found a way to blame the end of the world on me.
All the while my dad is sitting by, twiddling his thumbs going:
“Man, I wish I had a computer and a bag of chips. I would eat those chips. I would eat those chips so hard. Lets get some sour cream and onion goodness all up in here! Then I’m gonna discuss politics and my daughter’s deepest secrets with strangers on my facebook account.”
Doesn’t it just get fucking scarier than the apocalypse when not only does your father spend more time on facebook than you, he also has MORE FACEBOOK FRIENDS THAN YOU?
This is the part where I just bail.
I swear, I grab the bag of trash and take off running. Yeh fuck you guys, I’ll take the end of the world!
Now, you may be all like, man, this chick exaggerates so hardcore. To which I reply:
Spend a week in Wisconsin you fucking jackass.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I love the shit out of my parents, but some days I sit on my bed with a shotgun in my hands, rocking back and forth repeating this mantra:
Don’t do it, Telea. Don’t do it. You know you’re no good at not dropping the soap. Put the gun down.
Then I calculate how much time I have left until I can legally move out, down to the second.
Two hundred and fifty four days, twelve hours, thirty nine minutes, fifty three seconds. Two hundred and fifty four days, twelve hours, thirty nine minutes, twelve seconds. Two hundred and…
I think you get the point.
“Telea! Stop fucking around on your phone and help stuff this turkey!”
Go Team America