So, this is my first real entry... an absorbing tell-all expose about the turbulent ups and downs of a really dull weekend.

One of the happiest times of a teenage boy's life is when his parents have gone for the weekend. Its a magical time to invite friends over, sneak a bit of the liquor, watch your dad's porn on the big-screen in the living room and masturbate unabashedly with the bedroom door open (you know you did it, and I'm sure you girls have some counter-part experience).

Well, I'm 23 and I spent my parentally-free weekend boxing up my father's psychosis (what a wonderfully angsty line:). Its been building for years. First, it was in the pantry. Then, it was in my old bedroom (up until this week it looked more like bunker). Then, somehow, over years of accumulation and neglect it stacked itself in the hall; then, in the dining room. I'm talking about my father's shopping addiction; and not just any shopping addiction, but a grocery-shopping addiction. I'm talking an entire 10 by 10 room lined wall to wall with shelves of pickles, soups, sauces, and hot okra (who the hell eats okra? Nobody in my family). I'm talking four years of highschool and five years of college too embarassed to bring anyone over because there's boxes of Rice-a-Roni in my hallway.

But not anymore. Its gone now. Like I said I boxed it up and sent it off--the poor of Augusta will be having a Chef-Boyardi Christmas Dinner this year at the expense of my dad. I've been hoarding strong and sturdy boxes from work, hiding them in my truck until my parents were gone and I could make my move. And when they left on Saturday I got to work. It took me a whole day to consolidate the keepers into the pantry--longer than I had expected it to take. So I called a couple friends, but nobody could help (stupid me picked the weekend before finals to make my move). So, as with most things of giant emotional import, I went it alone. I plowed through that mofo in two days. Among the list of inexplicable items I found were an estimated 40 boxes of Zattarains rice mixes (mostly jumbalaya, and fried rice)--this is only inexplicable for sheer numbers; 2 jars of pickled eggs; 5 jars of the afore-mentioned hot okra; and 2 jars of baby-food (these I really don't understand).

Tuesday came around and a nice old guy, Nate, came from the food-bank to pick up the food. I showed him in and showed him the 20 or so boxes in the dining room (my main operational staging point), then I showed him the food in the hallway which, thank God, was already in boxes, and the boxes I had left in the back room, and the one large box (it took both of us to carry it) I could only get as far as my bedroom. We spent most of the morning together packing his truck with box after box. My back was aching; I had stayed up all night just so that I wouldn't miss the delivery (I'm a very deep sleeper); and though I had intended to cook myself a big breakfast I didn't. So my morning was physically miserable, but it was zen, if you will, loading all of it onto the truck, feeling my muscles work, having to remember to lift with my legs. We took a short break once we cleared the hallway and had a good conversation--we talked about his friends that were in Vietnam, and his own son that's about to be shipped to Iraq. He never mentioned the wierdness of all this food in a single household. I think I effectively broke that tension by telling him that we had been stock-piling for Armageddon, but we had recently lost the faith.

All in all, I felt pretty triumphant that day. The catharsis was complete and now all I had to do was face the consequences. My parents came home on Wednesday. Its Thursday now, and I still haven't seen the consequences. I worked all night Wednesday, I woke up late this morning. By then my mom was at work and my dad was... wherever it is he goes when he's not working. Actually, I take that back, I woke up around 10 this morning. I heard my dad meandering around the house. I heard him go out and get the mail. I heard him yell at my dog to be quiet. I went back to sleep. When I woke up at 12 he was gone. I went to my favorite coffeehouse, read a little, listened to my friends' talking, then at 6 decided to take a long drive--once, full around the city. Yeah, I was avoiding the consequences. But the consequences never came (or atleast not the ones I had expected--I expected to finally have a conversation with the old man). Rather, I came in, went to my bedroom and listened to my dad shutting cabinet doors in the kitchen. What I can't figure out is if his door-shutting was more aggressive than usual. I hope the sizable tax write-off will make him happy.

This is the thing about my dad: he, like me, doesn't talk much. Atleast not to me, atleast not when he's sober (don't get me wrong, he's not a drunk). He, like me, doesn't get angry much; or if he does, he doesn't show it. So basically, we don't talk, and we don't do anything. This is the way its been for years--I didn't even invite them to my baptism when I was 16. Nothing in this house really changes--the only form of change here is accumulation: day after day, year after year, canned good after canned good all going nowhere. This is the way its always been, its largely my fault, and I'm disatisfied with it. So I devised my plan: I dropped out of school (they don't know yet), I cleared out the stock-pile, I'll move into that room when I can get it fixed up (and get that damn refrigerator out of there), I'm going to submit a manuscript to this writer's conference in March (one of my professor's actually called it publishable in front of the entire class), and in late March or April I'm heading to Colorado (finances permitting). Once there... who knows what'll become of me. The only question really left is how to make my exit. And the only thing I'm sure of is that there will be change--maybe I'll finally lose some weight.