This is not an ideal time for a visit from my father. The piles of laundry are edging out of my closet and creeping toward the living room – there’s no way to disguise them from my father’s keen eyes. The man served as a lookout in the military for Christ’s sake – a pile of depressed person’s laundry would be detected upon entering the room. Maybe even in the hallway – I have to admit that even I can smell the stench of my own BO, cologne, soap, and desperate sprays of Febreze as soon as I come up the stairs. It’s not that Mikala was responsible for all of our laundry and I don’t know how to do it myself. It’s just a task that I associate with her because she seemed to truly enjoy it, turning our apartment upside down looking for anything else she could take down to the laundry room, extend her time with her novels and notebooks while our whites spun dry. Now, of course, I know that she was talking to him on the phone down there, that my dirty gym clothes were a chance for her to spend an hour telling him how terrible and dirty and disgusting I am. Is it any wonder I can’t bear to be in that room by myself? But my father will not be denied – either I have to throw the clothes away or clean them. I might just toss everything, tell him I’m becoming a Buddhist and simplifying my life. That will make him less angry than hearing that a son of his is depressed over a girlfriend leaving.
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