Ok, so I yelled at a cripple Sunday. He asked for it. He’s my stepfather, and he’s an asshole, and he asked for it. My mother, sister and I were putting together this futon my Mom bought. We ended up with extra screws at the end, realizing that the directions didn’t tell us everything we were supposed to do. But being of relative intelligence and having eyes that work, we figured it out.
At least, under normal scrutiny we figured it out. My stepfather, who has sections of his brain actively decaying in his skull which is why he is disabled, kept saying we were doing it wrong. Every time he said it, all three of us, who had been following the directions until the point they were no longer useful, had to defend ourselves and our project, which we had under control. Eventually, he said it that one time to many, to which I answered, paraphrasing, “Well, Drew, what would you suggest? If we’re doing it wrong, what are we supposed to be doing?” so drew, being unable to walk sufficiently, crawled the three feet from his spot on the couch, looked over the area of the now assembled futon in question, realized we were right (not that he admitted that or anything), and crawled back to the couch. It would have been sad if I wasn’t so angry.
And while I am somewhat less angry, in the end, I really don’t feel bad. I’m sorry I upset my mother, I’m sorry my sister got irritated with it, but I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for yelling at a man I have hated almost since we met, disabled or not. Does that make me a bad person? Perhaps, but after 14 years of putting up with this man simply because I love my mother that much, I think I’m entitled to one ‘fuck off’ a year, don’t you think?
9/28/08
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