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«  Sat.12.30.2000  »
11:23 pm EST        23°F (-5°C) in Dearborn
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I went to the Fisher Theatre in Detroit's New Center area this afternoon to see Les Misérables with my family. While I thought that the musical was wonderfully acted, I didn't exactly relish the thought of spending three hours in a darkened theatre watching a production that was, at times, depressing (in that "tear-jerking" kind of way, if you know what I mean). Furthermore, I didn't particularly enjoy my father's inappropriate theatre behavior; he snuck candies into the balcony in his coat pockets, then kept shoving some of them into my hand throughout the play. After the first one, which I ate primarily to humor him, I surreptitiously dropped the rest into my coat on the balcony floor. At the end of the performance, I located a trash receptacle in the concourse and disposed of the candies. Oh, and I haven't even begun to bemoan the ventilation; I couldn't breathe in there.

The prevailing stupidity in this house never ceases to amaze me. My parents had gone out for a while, so I attended to a few other tasks around the house. After finishing them, I decided to shower. I had just passed through the curtain when my father unlocked the side door of the house. As soon as my mother entered the kitchen, I heard her say, "I'd better get some hot water while there's still some left."

(I should probably stop here to provide a little background. Our bath faucet has three controls — one for hot water, one for cold, and one that directs the flow to either the bath itself or the shower head. Something in the linkage on this third control is broken, or so terribly out of adjustment, or whatever, meaning that a lot of hot water just goes through the bath spout and is wasted down the drain. As such, even a full water-heater tank provides barely enough hot water for a 15- to 20-minute shower, which is about as long as I'm in there. My parents know that the problem exists, but have so far refused to fix it.)

So, back to the story. My mother decided that the dishes were more important to her than I was; she filled the dish pan with hot water, robbing me of a good four or five gallons of hot water. I ended up getting my "final rinse" in cold water. The bitch knew I was in there, and knew that if she waited about half an hour after I was done, she'd have all the water she needed; but she did it to me anyway. Not to worry, loyal readers — your hero exacted a small morsel of revenge; I refused to rinse the soap suds off of the plastic curtains, as my father had requested me to do.

My mother's stunt just makes it clear that I need to get out of here, and fast. Next week, when one of my aunts returns from a week-long house-sitting job she's currently doing, I am going to ask her about the possibility of sharing her apartment in Washington, D.C.. I figure the worst thing that can possibly happen is a simple "no" — I mean, it's not like she's going to call my parents to say, "Larry says you suck, and he wants out." There would be another nice aspect to such a move; I won't say exactly what it is, but it's something that the aforementioned aunt shares in common with me — the astute reader probably knows what it is.

I am starting to believe that even with the best psychological care I can receive, I'm still going to require a change in scenery to make a complete recovery from my depression. Continuing to live in this house is, at best, going to stunt my recovery, if not stop it entirely. I haven't yet figured out the means of escape, but I know I need to get out soon.

In other news, Michigan's hockey team sucked this weekend, dropping both of its games in the GLI. Tech almost made everything better though, by taking State to overtime before losing the championship game 3-2. Anything to see the Sparties lose ...