It's April 5th, and I just broke a pair of scissors. The scissors were being used by my mother, who is so God damn concerned with putting stuff in boxes for the upcoming move that she was completely oblivious to a six-year old kid who happens to live in the house. Who is this little child who runs around all day when he's not at school, getting into whatever he can reach? Maybe my little brother, the son of this pathetically lost woman.
Maybe I'm being too hard on my dear mother. She really didn't do anything terribly neglective, just leave the paring knife on the cutting board about 5 inches from the edge of the kitchen counter.
Now wait a minute - isn't that kinda dangerous with an autistic 1st grader running around? Nah, he won't come in the kitchen and grab the knife and start waving it around tonight. He's only done it twice before when we left it out where he could reach it. Hmm. Maybe I'll get up and tell my mom to come in and move it to the back corner of the counter, like I always do when I use it. Yeah.
Well, it's 5 minutes later, and I'm still hearing that wretched sound of tape being applied to a bunch of boxes, which are the only things my mother is looking at right now. She doesn't care about Nick at all, really. The last thing she did for him was have him in the first place. I remember that day, and how glad I was. How happy we all were. Now, my mother could care less, apparently. She's not paying any attention to my little brother, and as much as I don't mind watching him in her stead, it's beginning to have an effect on my schoolwork.
Granted, I don't really care about schoolwork that much, it being my senior year. Still, I have a few things which still need to be done, and it's not helping that I'm listening to the sound of taping as I try to finish an Economics AP assignment.
I just broke the damn scissors. I went in there and tried to physically move my mom into the kitchen, where my little brother was sloshing his hand about in greasy water from the soaking pan in which we had cooked chicken. When I got up from doing my homework, which my dad yells at me about and my mom yells at me quietly about, to see what Nick was doing, there was already water all over the counter and some on the floor. While Mom was mumbling angrily about scissors in some incomprehensible dialect, I picked them up and said, "Now you don't have scissors anymore!" I hit them on the knob of the armrest on our largest couch in a manner which I thought was relatively soft. I must have underestimated myself in my anger, though, because I chipped off a large part of the pointy end on one side.
I threw it away and went back to the computer to try and finish my homework. I explained all I could about my day to my dad, who is now arguing with me about how I need to be driven to school in the mornings to protect me from the punks who throw stuff in front of me and trash-talk as I walk to school in the morning. I'm going to get their license plate number tomorrow and get them suspended or reprimanded in some way.
The taping is still going on in the living room.
I can't put up with it anymore. I'm gonna get on ICQ and hope my friend Kevin's on. Maybe I can talk to him, and even though I'm just gonna be ranting about a bunch of crap, it still helps to tell someone. I can't tell my dad cause he'll just argue about it, even though he agrees with me. I can't tell my mom cause she'll roll her eyes and say that I'm overreacting. Kevin's not online either. Aw crap. Well, my friend from RTO is on, so maybe I can switch tracks into game programming.
What? You have to go?
Fine, I'll write this rant.
I hate my family.