“What is this? What the fuck is this?” Angelica’s angry screams fill every square inch of the house, leaving room only for a single question: What have you fucked up this time?
Time to head this one off at the pass. You hop off the couch and step into the kitchen.
As you cross the threshold the floor changes from stained wood to slick linoleum and Angelica stands facing you as if awaiting your arrival. In her left hand she holds a bag containing most of a loaf of bread you used to make a sandwich earlier in the day.
“What the hell, dude?” she asks, gesturing to the bag. “What is this?”
“A loaf of bread, Angelica,” you reply impulsively with a sigh and a roll of your eyes. You regret it immediately.
“No shit, John.”
You sigh again. “What seems to be the problem, dear?” You try your best not to have A Tone. You fail.
“You take the clip off the bread and just spin it closed. Then I grab it by the end and all the bread falls out.”
“Well, why the hell do you grab it by the end, Angelica? I don’t take the cap off the milk, but I don’t see you grabbing the jug by the bottom.”
“You’d probably lose the cap to that, too, if you didn’t drink it straight from the jug!”
“It tastes better that way!”
“It’s fucking disgusting, and so are you!”
That tears it. “You know what? I’m your father, and you’re not going to talk to me like that?”
“I’ll talk to you however I want, old man.” She kicks you in the shin as she walks out of the room.
You cry alone. That really hurt.