Little did I know that after a night of handling big bags of hot air that I would be treated to one at home.
I have a theory about patterns in life. I think that though we’re not tied that strongly to fate, there are certain things that tend to happen in succession. For me, a key indicator of how crappy my Sunday will be is how happy my Saturday is. They are inversely proportional. For example, my excellent overnight trip to New York was greeted in the morning by my mother moving furniture in Allen’s old room so she could fit her new shoe racks in there…and of course she had to do all this as soon as I got home. So much fun, let me tell you.
Another pattern I noticed is that, without fail, I end up hearing from my estranged brother Allen right after I hear from Angie, which is very odd considering their birthdates are only five days apart. I’m not going to ponder this one.
So we’ve established two strong patterns in my life. What is interesting (and horrible) is how the patterns collide. More than not, if I have a wonderful Saturday with Angie, Allen is wafting on Sunday to ruin the rest of my weekend. It happened last year when Angie treated Todd M. and I to a Virginia Tech football game and I came home to an arduous, evil furniture moving trip to Virginia Beach, courtesy of Allen.
Yesterday, after a draining and fun night out with Angie to Pearisburg to help her with the party equipment, I came home, took a shower, went to bed for a little while and awoke to the sound of my brother coming in unannounced. The reason: to supposedly come see me.
If you’ve kept up with the saga of my disturbingly selfish and insane brother and me, you know that these meetings do not go well.
Because of Mom’s late-night work schedule and my full weekend, I hadn’t had a chance to talk to her for several days. When she came in the room, so did he, and proceeded to put off one of his most dramatic performances yet.
He always claims he doesn’t want to hurt me and loves me so much, which of course he proves by trying to get into fistfights and calling me stupid every time he can, not letting me get a word in edgewise when we “talk.” He’s even resorted to overdramatic crying fits to try to get his point across, but of course they are as fake as he is. Calling him on this almost got my drapes torn off the wall, as he pounced on me and busted my lip, trying to pin me and permanently bending my blinds in the process.
I’m really sick of him, and if could afford to move anywhere so that I didn’t have to be bothered with him ever again, I would.
He never changes. He pretends like he’s going to change and accept a little more of my viewpoint on things; to be a partner instead of a master, but he doesn’t do it and likely never will. When Dad ran him out of my room after the pouncing incident, he was listening through the wall and tried to attack me again when I complained how much of a freeloader he is. I can’t lend him anything because he never returns anything (and steals more behind my back) and he has abused the resources of the house to the point we have a hole in the ceiling, no long-distance service, and a graveyard of cars he junked because he never even bothered to maintain when he drove them, not even bothering with gas sometimes, much less other fluids.
The worst part of all this is what it does to Mom. My mother is not a crier, never has been, but watching her sons fight has made her miserable. There’s nothing I can do about this situation that will be fair to her and me at the same time. I can’t play nice with Allen because he’s so intent on having somebody to dominate, calling me “son” and ‘boy” when he’s only 14 moths older than me, and I can’t convince Mom that I’m not damning my soul to hell by avoiding him. I really am at an impasse that can’t be solved in any reasonable way.
I’m not allowing comments on this one. I just need to air my lungs.