Gandhi #8: Get the Fuck Out

Almost Comatose
by Gandhi Mangler


I moved back into my parents' house six months ago --I'm still twenty years old, so moving back was probably not a psychological problem-- and I have worn-out my welcome. It might be subconsciously done, but my parents have been hinting that they want me to leave. Everyone knows that I'm a saint so it is they who must be psychologically damaged. The scant evidence is anecdotal.

Six weeks ago, the bathroom door's knob broke, trapping my mom inside the bathroom. She kicked the door and split the flimsy wood barely holding together the warped door. After a week of curtain-level privacy, my dad installed a new knobless door while I was working the election. Latch-and-eyehook security is disconcerting.

While I'm on the subject, I must mention something that irks me, because I hear it. Maybe my dad is a little disoriented at 2 a.m., but shouldn't he still close the bathroom door (such as it is) regardless of when and where he pisses? I've already mentioned that he's an asshole, but this much disregard for other human beings is intolerable. Also, when he watches television three rooms away, I hear it at a volume higher than my own. He's not that deaf.

Maybe my mom is sick, but she continually coughs throughout the day. It stops at night so she can snore in peace. She also buys food I dislike. It's easy to do that, though, because I hate most food products for aestetic reasons in order to retain my low-fat consistency. That means I'm down to lasagne and Three Musketeers candy bars. Not having anything to eat is not a big problem but maybe my mom buys food I dislike on purpose. Recently she said, "I thought I'd buy pears because you people didn't eat the apples I bought last time." Other people learn from their mistakes.

Not only are the things that transpire in the house loathesome, but they happen at an insufferable temperature. I like to be warm; I once moved to Texas to avoid winter. It's winter now and the thermostat is set at sixty-five degrees. I wear my leather coat that smells like cow indoors.

I waited a few weeks to submit this piece because I didn't have a good ending. A week ago, I overheard my mom and dad discussing what to do with Grandma Alzheimer's. They suggested that she could move into their house. The only viable extra bedroom is mine. So that means I'd have to leave. However, I haven't heard anything about it since, so I'm writing it off as "Thanksgiving fever."

I found the proper ending in the basement atop the freezer in a box beneath a $4.99 price tag. It's a Christmas wreath, but not a regular makes-you-want-to-puke Christmas wreath. It's one of those Christmas wreaths people wire to the grill of their trucks. It is the lighted vehicle wreath of the insane. This, this alone is the impetus I need. I MUST LEAVE THIS BEANIE-BABY-RIDDEN PLACE.


"Always remember that community college is a waste of time." - Gandhi Mangler

"Until we stop talking about it, they HAVE won." - Joe Bob Briggs