Sweet Fuckin' NYC

I was back in NY recently. My ex lives there, so it could've been a difficult trip, fraught with temptation to call or stop by and say hi . . . were she not "deceased" (see explanation here: http://iamthecurmudgeon.blogspot.com/2010/07/youre-dead-to-me.html). So instead, it was a trip of forging ahead and moving on . . . peppered with a smattering of painful memories of her tragically, slowly bleeding out over the course of several long, long days, alone in the frigid wilderness, where no one could hear her cries for help after having her limbs torn from her body by dull-toothed, rabid, feral dogs . . .

But otherwise, it was a total blast! Family, oppressive humidity, rain, the smell of baking garbage and hobo piss . . . what's not to love?

Actually, the point of me mentioning my trip back to NY was to make a stupid joke about my parents, that I'll still make; I just got a little carried away there. Oh, sweet catharsis.

Point was, I went to stay at my father's place one night, and on the way, my step-mom goes, "We washed the sheets and made the bed! It's all ready for you!" (Like I'm a six-year-old with Down syndrome.) No shit! I'd hope so! Does this need to be explicitly stated? Does that mean every time you didn't specifically say you washed the sheets I was sleeping in a dirty bed?! What the hell?!