Monday, August 09, 2004
The Father picked me up from work last night, sat me down, and told me he and Terri think I am depressed (I denied it, naturally; I hadn't been certain exactly what he might say to me before he said it, but had he accused me of leaving the cap off the toothpaste, I was fully prepared to deny, deny, deny). Nothing The Father said during the course of the conversation struck me as "news"; my personality took some bizarre downward spiral sometime during my sophomore year in high school, and I won't pretend I never noticed. However, he suggested that now that I am back on his insurance (he switched after he and Terri married), I should 'go see someone'. For reasons too innumerable to list, I am very much against that course of action.
After we discussed the fact that I am neurotic, I went to my room-that-is-not-my-room to read Get Fuzzy. Sometime later The Father knocked on my door and opened it (without bothering to wait for an answer, I must note) to tell me it was Phillip's birthday and they were all eating an Oreo cookie ice cream cake downstairs. I glared at him: 'Father, you just told me I'm fat and depressed, and now you are tempting me with ice cream!' He replied in his Mr. Sensitive voice I didn't have to come down, and I did not want to, particularly, but I did anyway because everyone would notice me missing and would then think I was upstairs moping, even though I was having a perfectly content time reading Get Fuzzy. Dadgummit. I never win, and that's why I am so depressed.
Mmmm... ice cream sounds good, and I haven't eaten breakfast yet.
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 6:58 AM]