the return of the dada.

the return of the dada.

my uncle was cleaning the house yesterday, in a frightfully diligent mood, and he was thorough. i came home from college to discover that everything had been mopped. Such diligence isn’t ever to be expected from my uncle, who usually sits by the television and humbly criticizes malaysian-chinese actresses, so the sudden rush of domestic work could only mean one thing: the return of the dada.

the hearing between my parents is about 2 weeks away, but that hasn’t stopped the dada from coming back to wreak havoc. and, as expected, i was shocked, but due to yesterday’s signs, i was prepared. my room was cleaned (everything was stashed away), and i managed to get all traces of vice out of the car. i’m covered, until my father decides to have some incredibly frank conversation with me about my life. the very conversation we have all the time before he leaves again.

i admit, life with the dada at home is quite good. i don’t have to pay for food, i can buy some clothes and possible those converse high tops i’ve been needing for a while. the downside is, i can’t touch the ps2, i can’t go out, and being online itself is difficult. it’s worst than being a prepubescent girl who’s dying to meet her puppy lover.

i’ve decided not to ask anything relating why he’s come back so early, unless he wants to tell me. i don’t think i’ll ask him when he’s going back, either, because that usually is a waste of time. not to sound like a miser, but i do hope that i can get an advance on my allowance. or at least a new computer monitor. or something.

as usual, my dad has brought back the obligator disposable razors, and something extra…six boxes of dove soap. he thinks lowly of our hygiene. he has to remind us. the prick.

i want my shoes.