Go away

For three weeks, our house has been home to several painters, carpenters and electricians while my parents completely renovate. I haven't slept in my bedroom or used my bathroom in two weeks, and by the end of this weekend I must have every single item out of my room so it can be re-carpeted. Yes, this makeover is nice...for someone who plans on living here. The house will be finished just before I leave for California, and my mom is already starting to move my stuff out to make way for her grand guest bedroom. Who gives a fuck? It's not like this place is a bed and breakfast. I will admit, however, that our new kitchen appliances are very state-of-the-art. I feel like a Jetson.

Although they started off endearing and kind, I'm down to the fucking wire with the painters. They're an older married couple, and they retreat to the garage every five minutes to smoke. I despise the smell of cigarette smoke. For it to linger in my house with the added stench of their B.O. is too much. Every single question they ask (albeit in an effort to make small talk) grates on my last nerve. Last week, when the wife asked about my restaurant, it took everything I had not say, "It's way too expensive for you and I doubt you tip well." Instead, she went on about how much she loves fried fish. Like my restaurant serves fried fucking fish. I just said, "I hate fried foods. They're so unhealthy."

I blame my irritable state on the fact that I can't get to any of my clothes. They've all been spread on my bed and covered with a nasty tarp that I wouldn't touch with a sterilized 10-foot pole. I'm quite sure that once the shitty sheet is removed, I'll burn my clothes and buy new ones. Until then, I'm going around the house naked in protest. Maybe that will shut up the hired help.