My dad is white. Sure, I’m stating the obvious there, but my dad is whiter than white. My dad is so white that it radiates all over the interior of his house. When I moved into this house as a child, with my parents and my sister, it had some colour. Dark green carpet in the living room, pink carpet in one of the bedrooms; borders and trim, wallpaper. Creatively placed things. Gaudy curtains, and tacky things here and there. However, no matter how tacky it was, you’d think my dad would have practiced a little sense of design when giving it an overhaul. He’s like the KKK of interior design.
So what’d dad do? He painted everything white. No, really. Every fucking room in the house, except for his and mum’s bedroom. Instead he put up this mostly-white, shitty-looking floral wallpaper from hell. It looks like some shit you’d see at a hospital. It’s very boring, inoffensive, and doesn’t exactly challenge the mind to think about the patterns. There used to be brown and black paneling in the hallway; dad painted it white. Every last bit of wall he could get his paintbrush on, he painted white. Even the floor in the storage room in the basement. Yes, he painted the fucking floor white. All the carpeting (save for his bedroom, which is blue … and white) in the entire house is white. Save for a blue rug downstairs. The linoleum in the kitchen is white. The rugs in the house are all white. Or some fucking variant of white.
For a while my sister’s bedroom was green. I suspect dad was going through a creative phase, or the realization that everything in the entire fucking house was white, and boring as shit. When I moved, my sister took my bedroom and my mother moved a bunch of her shit into that room, which, my dad painted (you guessed it) white. I was mortified over this when I returned. I was also mortified to find that the blue walls in the downstairs bathroom were painted white; the bathroom upstairs used to be some odd colour, but I know it wasn’t white. The adjoined laundry room used to have brown cabinets, and at some point my dad painted things blue. Lo and behold he had this bizarre compulsion to paint everything white. Even the fucking cabinets.
So far the only places safe from dad’s white infestation have been the insides of closets (which have remained brown). I was delighted several months ago to find that dad put up some wood paneling downstairs. It’s brown. However, everything is still white aside from that; both upstairs and downstairs have living spaces with white couches. Almost all the curtains or shades in the house are white. There used to be very long windows just below the ceiling in the living room; my dad had custom curtains and rods made to cover them, and (yep!) they were white. (Eventually we boarded them up and painted; those fucking windows were an atrocity and the person who engineered this stupid shitty house should be shot to death.)
Some minor annoyances of dad’s obsession with white descend well into the fact that all the vents, switch plates, and lights are white. Every handle, every cabinet door. The front and back doors (both the inner and storm doors) and the exterior of the house are also white. My dad has issues with white. Please, for the love of all that’s unholy, explain to me why one man would want to paint his entire fucking house white. Even all the appliances (except for the dishwasher and stove) are fucking white. It’s just completely unacceptable.
While I’m on this rampage, I must go on a rampage about the fact that people have seemingly lost their sense of interior (and exterior) design. Think back to the 1800s through the 1950s. Ornate rugs, cherry oak, rich-looking patterns, china and porcelain; colours, swirls, decadence. Then mod, circular, colourful, fashionable. Antique. Think Victorian, stylish, dramatic. Where have these homes gone? What happened to the days when people actually had a little creativity and taste? Everything is now so plain, square, flat, shitty. What the hell has happened to this world?
Shame on you if your imagination is nonexistent. You’re ruining the world.
Why do you have to be so smelly? Every time you walk past me or somehow manage to sit within a few feet of me, you smell like a cigarette. It makes me gag, and you may as well just be smoking in the house - however, it’s a good thing you don’t, because then I’d be smelly too. However, the smelliness does not stop at JUST your repulsive smoking habit: you seem to be farting every few seconds.
When you’re eating, you’re farting. When you’re talking, watching TV, on your computer, on the phone, making food, washing the dishes, and even doing laundry, you’re sure to be farting as well. Driving? Farting. In the shower? Farting. Climbing stairs? Still farting. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was silent (but you’d still stink) but really, every fart basically rattles the house off its foundation. Not only that, no matter where I am in the house, I hear you farting. I know that I’m not always unlucky enough to be in the crossfire of your ass-cannon, but that’s beside the point - it could be someone, somewhere else in this world farting, but no. It’s ALWAYS you.
The erosive powers of your ass-rumblings on an innocent bystander’s nostrils justify your purpose of having your own private bathroom, downstairs. However, that’s always a million times worse. It’s not that the walls are thin in this house, it’s that there may just as well be a goddamn earthquake when you sit down on that “throne”. Really. Do you honestly have to fart THAT much? You do it in your sleep. I’m usually awake well into the wee hours, and I’ve usually got my headphones on, when suddenly, I hear the wretched, rippling, jig-saw sound of your ass orchestrating a one-man symphony.
Please, Dad, if not for the disturbance of the entire neighbourhood, then save my poor cat that sleeps next to your feet every night. Think of my little Simon (my cat), and learn to control the ghastly emissions from your ass before we end up like millions of Jews once did.