I will start with the positives. My weekend has been great. It has involved such great things such as parties, making out, snuggling, and an entire festival dedicated to a spice. But alas, sunday, bloody sunday, has arrived, and I have once again been fated to spend my hours on the computer, destroying my motivation, as well as my eyes and my ears.
As usual, I woke up just as my dad was leaving for a Sunday morning bike ride and my mother and sister were leaving for church, and I was dressed in whatever I wore the night before. As my mom closed the door with a loud "We're leaving for church Dan, see you later!" the only thing that entered my mind was an internal argument between going straight to my computer, or eating breakfast first. Being who I am, a lazy white person with little to no semblance of a life, the computer took the prize.
The computer holds quite a bit of endearment for me, especially when I am home alone. First of all, it holds the internet. The internet is truly my second life. I opened Colloquy and logged into the Ultimate-Guitar chat room, conversing with such oversea-ers as Alex and Luke. I log into the Bass chat, which I moderate, to find that I cannot moderate because the chatbot is down, so I find a way to deal with the idiots: Ignore them now, ban them later. Thus is the life of an internet junkie on his Sunday morning.
Looking at my cell phone, I find two messages, one from my good friend Marshall of him being an idiot, and the other one from my girlfriend, Sarah, telling me that she was thinking of me and that I should pick up the phone. Wimmenz
I feel my stomach start to ache, so I throw on a hoodie and go downstairs to forage through the kitchen looking for something to fill my stomach. I reach the counter and see the note: "Daniel: Please Vacuum the Stairs and the Upstairs"
Fuck! The last thing I wanna do on my lazy sunday is run a powered vacuum cleaner over carpet. Such a menial task, but such a pain at the same time. I promise myself I'll "do it later", knowing exactly what that means: At 8:00 tonight, I will pull out the vacuum, just as my sister is going to bed, and start cleaning. At this point, I predict, my dad will come out, yell at me, and tell me to do it tomorrow. Wash, rinse, repeat.
I bring my breakfast- a ham and egg sandwich -into my room, put on my monitor headphones, and open Logic, somehow expecting to turn out a second tune this weekend. I get as far as I usually do: Good drums, nice bass line, cool chordal progression, but, because it is Sunday, my motivation fails me, and I do not go any further. Thus, I decide to engage in the manliest activity known to mankind- one that involved no women in any shape or form: Masturbate to tranny porn.
Soon after I finish, and my mom and sister walk through the door. I decide to me evasive and not answer to my mother's "Hello"s, which annoys her to the point of banging on my door, demanding "why the heck didn't you answer?" I chuckled, big her good morning, and went back to whatever I was doing. I spent the rest of my day doing whatever that was.
Around dinner (by now, boredom of the computer had set in so deep that I had to do my homework to dislodge it), I came down to eat, and received a scowl from my mother for a passing joke I had made about wanting "Jack Daniel's 'on the rocks'" with my grilled chicken, although my dad smiled and made a small noise that passed for a laugh. I ate my dinner quietly, and when asked what I did today, I stayed silent, looked up, and raised my eyebrows, as if to ask what kind of stupid question that was. I went back upstairs, dead silent, to avoid doing the dishes.
Upon arriving in my room, I finish my homework, and log into Facebook, to see who else is bored out of their skulls. I see I have "1 Event Notification", which turns out to be a girl I met over the summer saying "I'll give you my digits if you give me your's" I give her my cell number, and laugh out loud to myself because this was the girl who indirectly got me kicked out of camp for watching her undress in her cabin room from my room with a friend. Obviously, she couldn't have cared less, but her room mate sure did. Wimmenz
Now the time has come. I say to myself boldly "I am going to clean this upstairs and vacuum these steps for once and for all!", and proudly march out to the vacuum. Unfortunately, my sister is at a friend's house overnight, and I will not get yelled at.
I get out the vacuum we keep upstairs, run it around some heavy spots, and put it back, about to go downstairs to use the nice vacuum cleaner we keep in the front hall, when my mother stops me. She brings out the vacuum cleaner again, shoves it in my hands, and tells me to "get cleaning this carpet" I point out a clean, white floor, and she says "Come over here!" I sigh and walk over to where she points, examining carefully, seeing nothing. "Vacuum this!", and I calmly tell her that I see nothing and that the floor is spotless. I vacuum the area anyways. Wash, rinse, repeat, around four times.
By the fifth revolution, I am fed up. She points to yet another spotless sector of the floor, and, with a mixture of frustration with my mother for her ceaseless and redundant nagging, and with myself for procrastinating on this seemingly simple task, I slam the vacuum cleaner to the ground, and drop its handle. My mother, I'm sure of it, sees this whole ordeal in slow motion. I march downstairs, as my mother nearly dives on the poor machine, holding it pitifully, holding on until its last breath has been taken, prepared to carry out its last request "Kiiiilll hiiim," I am imagining the dying thing wheezing, "Avenge me! Kiiiiiillll Hiiiiim!" My mother pleads, "But he is my only son!" "Killl him!" it demands, My mother looks up, ready to strike and...
"Hey, are you gonna clean those steps or what?" My mother snaps me out of my daydream. And thus, I finish my menial task
My mother has the same paranoid obsession with vacuuming clean carpet. She also has the same brain disease that requires her to mandate that I vacuum every area five to seven times, because clean carpet can't get cleaner unless you vacuum it enough for the vacuum bristles to get it dirty...
"By the fifth revolution, I am fed up. She points to yet another spotless sector of the floor, and, with a mixture of frustration with my mother for her ceaseless and redundant nagging, and with myself for procrastinating on this seemingly simple task, I slam the vacuum cleaner to the ground, and drop its handle. My mother, I'm sure of it, sees this whole ordeal in slow motion. I march downstairs, as my mother nearly dives on the poor machine, holding it pitifully, holding on until its last breath has been taken, prepared to carry out its last request "Kiiiilll hiiim," I am imagining the dying thing wheezing, "Avenge me! Kiiiiiillll Hiiiiim!" My mother pleads, "But he is my only son!" "Killl him!" it demands, My mother looks up, ready to strike and..."