“Have you got gas?” my mother just called and asked very seriously.
All I could think of was intestinal gas and started to laugh giddily – never letting a good bathroom joke pass me by.
“Thankfully, no,” I replied. “I don’t have gas.”
“Not that kind of gas, silly!!!” mom exclaimed. “Your father is going to fill up his car and I thought you might need gasoline as well.”
I met dad at Fat Albert’s. He was surly and serious.
“I am worried about you,” he said. “This bulimia deal is driving me nuts!!!”
It pissed me off. There is always some kind of drama involving me and my father and it gets old. I quietly got in my car and drove home without getting gas. Dad called me on his cellphone.
“What happened???” he asked cluelessly.
“I am tired of that kind of shit every time I see you,” I replied. “I am tired of these emotional and mental games you play with me. I came home to go back to bed.”
He hung up the phone and I am going back to bed.