I'm The Geek Who Slapped A Football Player.

69 - Demon Thing

I've never been one to debate sneaking out of my house, but, fucking frankly, the thought has crossed my mind.

"OOoOo you're turning into a rebellious teenager—"

Nooooo I'm just a fucking PISSED OFF teenager god dammit!!! Furious, raged-filled, close to boarding up my bedroom door and using my bedsheets to parachute from my window and run screaming into the sunset with my middle fingers raised and telling the world that Delores Hornitt is a BITCHHH—

But, alas, I'm just curled up on my bed, surrounded by blankets, my cats, and my laptop on this stupid ass Sunday afternoon.

My mom and I's yelling fit, caused by her because she got caught TRYING TO GET INTO MY CELLPHONE, has caused quite the ruckus in the usually quiet Hornitt household.

I'd refused to come out of my bedroom for supper, telling my dad about fifteen different times to GO AWAY IM STAYING IN HERE. About thirty seconds later my mom had opened my door, looking like a bitchy Medusa (wild hair, evil glare, the whole package), bearing a tray of supper.

Telling her I didn't want her disgusting bowl of Alfredo pasta and to never come back to my room again had basically set up a nuclear warhead between us, and she'd tried to blame me, advise me, guilt me, and then 'ground me until I graduate' all in the span of what felt like fifteen seconds. My dad, the stupid quiet bastard, had taken the tray from her hands, placed it on the vanity in my room and then all but carried my mother from the room.

I made a point of slamming my door so hard I heard the picture frames in the hallway rattle, and it had spiked my mom's voice about three octaves.

Surprised? You fucking shouldn't be.

We're not calm people, my mother and I. Nooooopppee.

It took me awhile to calm down and make enough of an effort to sit down, but I'd eventually picked up my laptop, logged on, and logged into Facebook. I'd immediately messaged Scarlett, and then I'd spent probably an HOUR just rage typing to her. The tiniest smidge of guilt was felt when I remembered that Scarlett was most likely still doing her best to help Farida feel better after we'd discovered that her boyfriend was a huge cheater, but anger had won out.

God bless her sweet innocent little Angel self, she tried to calm me down. She did her best, my dear best friend, but all I could honestly do was just rant about my stupid sneaking PHONE STEALING BITCH MOTHERRR. She couldn't Skype me as she was on full babysitting duty at home tonight, but just speaking to her had been a balm.

Into the evening, while I'd been watching cute cat videos on YouTube to pass the time, my dad had knocked on the door and brought in a bowl of ice cream as a peace offering.

I'd said nothing, he'd said nothing. He'd left me alone. The look on his face had stabbed me with so much guilt though, I had shut off my computer, turned off my bedside lamp, rolled up into my blanket and tried to go to sleep.

Failing at that, I'd eaten the ice cream.

About 1am I had gotten tired enough to eventually fall asleep. It's been a very long time since I've had this kind of argument with my mother, and part of me feels like I'm taking ten steps back from where I've been moving toward...

Today, Sunday morning, the tension has just RAGED through the house. I've come out of my room to use the bathroom, get breakfast, and eat lunch, and have AGAINST ALL THE THE RAGE IN MY TOOTHPICK BODY emptied the dishwasher when my mother had told me to do it, and had hauled a basket of my folded laundry up to my room.

Mom, Bitch Queen of all the snooping bitches, seemed to have had a lonnnnggg talk with Dad and had said the bare minimum to me, but I could and can just SEE the words burning on her lips as she glares at me.