Dysfunctional Birthdays
I'm not in the best mood, and I'm about to use a lot of quotation marks for sarcasm. Bare with me, please.
Dinner couldn't have gone any better for a dysfunctional bunch like us. We went to our usual place; a restaurant/sports bar where my father and brothers spent more time staring at the twenty-some HD televisions mounted on the wall than actually eating. I ordered a chicken sandwich and got a "medium", blood red burger. I took a few bites and then slid it away. I looked around and noticed all of the people with babies. Then I noticed the people in the bar section, screaming at the Jets-Bengals game. All I could think was who gives a flying fuck about the Bengals...
Then I realized Mike was talking to everyone. So I listened, half-heartedly. He was talking about some "friend" (I believe he said "some fucking bastard") who puked in his truck last night. I thought about how loud he had said it, and the poor innocent babies nearby, and I thought about telling him to shut up, but I just stared down at my supposed-to-be chicken sandwich and sighed.
Dad had a few too many, of course, and I drove home. Chris forgot to get the cake, and so we just came home and went our own separate ways. Mike's outside taking hot water and bleach to the inside of truck. Serves him right. Lately, Mike's been an ass.
I talked to Katie for like a mili-second, but she was off to some concert with her parents. They're always off doing some shit.
I tried to text Robby, but he's M.I.A. We don't talk much...I can't figure him out. I'm not in the mood to try.
I texted Brandon during dinner. He's snowed in down south, eating apple dumplings and watching television. He's been doing that since noon, when he got up.
That's Terrie Lynn's dumpling recipe, too. Those things are AMAZING.
I can hear Dad yelling at Mike about his truck, and I think Nick went out to get a cake. Chris left, too. We did our time, an hour at a "restaurant", and now everyone's doing their own thing. Dad's having another drink in the living room, and I know not to mess with him. You can't talk to him when he drinks. You can't even walk in between him and the television without getting bitched out.
Yup. Normal night.
Happy birthday, Dad...
Dinner couldn't have gone any better for a dysfunctional bunch like us. We went to our usual place; a restaurant/sports bar where my father and brothers spent more time staring at the twenty-some HD televisions mounted on the wall than actually eating. I ordered a chicken sandwich and got a "medium", blood red burger. I took a few bites and then slid it away. I looked around and noticed all of the people with babies. Then I noticed the people in the bar section, screaming at the Jets-Bengals game. All I could think was who gives a flying fuck about the Bengals...
Then I realized Mike was talking to everyone. So I listened, half-heartedly. He was talking about some "friend" (I believe he said "some fucking bastard") who puked in his truck last night. I thought about how loud he had said it, and the poor innocent babies nearby, and I thought about telling him to shut up, but I just stared down at my supposed-to-be chicken sandwich and sighed.
Dad had a few too many, of course, and I drove home. Chris forgot to get the cake, and so we just came home and went our own separate ways. Mike's outside taking hot water and bleach to the inside of truck. Serves him right. Lately, Mike's been an ass.
I talked to Katie for like a mili-second, but she was off to some concert with her parents. They're always off doing some shit.
I tried to text Robby, but he's M.I.A. We don't talk much...I can't figure him out. I'm not in the mood to try.
I texted Brandon during dinner. He's snowed in down south, eating apple dumplings and watching television. He's been doing that since noon, when he got up.
That's Terrie Lynn's dumpling recipe, too. Those things are AMAZING.
I can hear Dad yelling at Mike about his truck, and I think Nick went out to get a cake. Chris left, too. We did our time, an hour at a "restaurant", and now everyone's doing their own thing. Dad's having another drink in the living room, and I know not to mess with him. You can't talk to him when he drinks. You can't even walk in between him and the television without getting bitched out.
Yup. Normal night.
Happy birthday, Dad...