The Glamorous Life of an Orphan

Hello all,

I am writing you today from my childhood bedroom that has become my adult bedroom, with no changes done to it except for my dog. He has a bed in the center of the room even though he sleeps on my bed or laundry. I am in my room in a fit of defiance against my parents. As a child, one might be sent to his room for mouthing off or having “too much attitude Noah Joseph!!”, like my middle name ever scared me, but as an adult I go to my room to show them that I don’t need to take their crazy ways, nonsense, and constant bitching. I will give them the ultimate sentence, I will take away my awesomeness and wait for them to come crawling back to me. They will say, “Oh Noah, we’re so sorry. Please tell us about your day. Oh, you are so interesting and we are such complete assholes.”

I have been doing this for 3 days and nothing.

I was in the living room when they came home, thinking that I would be the adult and move things along, start fresh, and continue life, but no. They are still the same assholes they were the day before. The day before I made a German Chocolate cake for a dinner with Grandma and Grandpa that I would not be attending, there was a cliff to be jumped off of with my name all over it. Anyways, I made the cake, I am a very good cook, but as I poured the batter into the baking dish, it wouldn’t even out; I blame the 5 cent cake mix. It looked like a wavy field of wheat, with hills and valleys all over it, and would not flatten out. I thought that maybe it would bake out flat, it did not. I iced it, did the best I could and left Mom a note:

Mom,

I am so sorry about the cake. I thought it would even out like brownie batter, but it didn’t. I’m sure it still tastes fine. Though, if it does not taste fine you can go downstairs and get some Lego men and play “all terrain adventure”.

With this note and the valleys of the cake having a strong resemblance to unleavened bread, and that that might appeal to a religious woman, I thought it was no problem. Clearly I was wrong.

“Hi Mom, how was dinner”

“Fine.”

“Ok, what did Grandma and Grandpa have to say?”

“Nothing.”

“What the hell is your problem?”

Sigh “What did you do to the cake?!?!?!”

“Are you seriously bitching at me because of a cake that I made for YOUR dinner?”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know! It just baked like that!”

No appreciation, no appreciation at all. Dad comes home everyday and asks me when the dogs were taken out last. I could 10 hours or 10 minutes. He will take off his jacket while he’s asking me and then put it back on and take the dogs outside. BITCH, I JUST DID IT.
The other day, just to make a kamikaze attempt at a conversation, I told Dad that I had gotten up at 10:30.

Sigh “That’s pretty late.”

“Well Dad, I usually don’t go to bed until 2 or 3.”

Sigh “Well that’s pretty late too.”

“I’m just not tired at night.”

“Well, that’s cause you’re not waking up until 10 or 11 in the morning.”

“Well, that’s cause I’m not going to bed until 2 or 3.”

“That’s too late.”

“Well, when I didn’t wake up until 10 or 11 it’s not really that late.”

“Well then, you should go to bed earlier.”

“But I’m not tired, and I’m only sleeping 8 hours.”

It continued on like this for a few minutes. It was like some fucked up version of “Who’s on First?”. Last week the palms of my hands were very dry and peeling for no reason. I don’t do manual labor, use weird chemicals; I had no idea why they were peeling. I had almost settled on the conclusion that in my odd hours of sleep I was going into my parent’s bedroom and taking turns strangling each of them in hope to start living the glamorous life of an orphan. That dream was put to rest as I was talking to one of my friends on the phone and she said that when people are really stressed out their hands dry out and peel. If that’s the truth, I should be leaving full body Noah-shaped skin shells around the house on a daily basis.

And lastly, this is a real conversation that happened last night while we were watching Grey's Anatomy. Mom was looking at a holiday magazine:

Me: "I need to get one of those razor blade shear things for Graham's fur. It gets more hair out than brushing and it cuts down on shedding."

Mom: "Well, you can always put it on your Christmas list."

Me: "Ug, I am not even looking forward to Christmas."

Thinking about the holidays, anniversary, birthdays.

Me: "I just want to slip into a comma and wake up in April."

Mom: "...............Well, someone will need to make your car payment."

I gave her a look that would have let any sane person know that that was not the response I was looking for.

Mom: "...........Well, we can't keep paying it forever."

I couldn't make her up if I tried.