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My Sundays always go up in smoke

Have I mentioned I hate Sundays? Or, just you know, don't enjoy 'em very much? They always start in the same way, with a phone call at the crack of dawn -- and by that, I mean: the crack of dawn. My dad. Asking me to bring him some fags, as he's out of them completely. And then the same conversation ensues every. f*cking. Sunday:

Me: "Dad. It's Sunday. The shops don't open until 12 noon."
Dad: "What?"
Me: "It's Sunday. I can't get you your fags until noon."
Dad: "You're rubbish you are. You know they're the only thing that make my life bearable, and you can't be bothered to get me some now?!"
Me: ::sigh:: "I'll see you later, Dad."
Dad: "Don't you do me any favours!" ::slams phone down on me::
Me: "Aaaaargggghh!"

Then when I get there, I notice the cat hasn't been fed probably all weekend, her litterbox hasn't been changed in a week, and Dad won't be interested in any small-talk until he's had at least two cigarettes one after the other.

Oh well. Better go get him his blasted smokes. Toodlepip.

Comments

gamiila
Nov. 5th, 2006 07:24 pm (UTC)
Now there's an idea...Thanks! That might just work!