Renovations can go die under a tractor

Barely a week ago, it seemed as if my ability to turn a blank piece of paper into a graceful, poignant masterpiece about my genitals was slowly drifting away from me. I had lost my jump. Writing, which had always been second nature to me, even as a child, was now a mysterious, impenetrable fog. Everything I tried to write felt forced and awkward, and quickly plummeted to a harsh oblivion. I attributed this to the fact that I haven't been getting out much lately. I knew that when I did, something stupid would eventually have the good grace to show itself, so I could needlessly make fun of it.

As it turns out, I didn't need to leave my house to find something at all. It came to me. The irony of this is just sickening, or at least I think this is how irony works. I wanted to get out of my house, hoping to conjur some inspiration, when I didn't actually have to move at all. Now that terror itself has found me, presenting me a golden opportunity to write about something, suddenly I don't feel like writing anymore. Sadly, the reality I'm faced with is harsh, unavoidable, and now it's become personal. I'll be damned if I let the renovations win.

A couple days ago, my father asked me to empty the linen closet downstairs. My father has the unique ability at any moment of his choosing, to pick the very last thing you want to do in the universe. I wondered what the purpose behind this task was, but I didn't ask any questions for fear of getting answers, so I tried not to think about it. Everything became clear to me yesterday when I heard the faint sound of a drill downstairs, my father yelling "fuck" very loudly, followed by what sounded like something getting its shit ruined by a hammer. When shit is getting demolished by hammers, the air smells of renovations. Cold, retarded renovations, or if you beat me at Halo ever. May I present to you, the progression of the room downstairs:

Stage One: Regular linen closet

Stage Two: Linen closet removed to make way for upgraded bathroom

Stage Three: Valuable pipes discovered lingering within the wall designated for smashing. Project crippled, reverted back to regular linen closet with different doors

Stage Four: Several months later, linen closet removed again, upgraded bathroom in progress, and by "upgraded" I mean adding a useless sink and some cabinets, effectively reducing our storage space

Stage Five: What the FUCK?


The feeling this instills is a lot like when I sit down, and accidently sit on one of my testicles. So we're renovating our renovations now. Exquisite. This project is particularly bothersome, not simply because my father can't plan anything properly, but because it's already failed once before, which will drive my father to perform and take several, "creative liberties". These are divided into two distinct categories. The first being what he wants to do, the second being something horrifying or dangerous, which usually happens. I have little faith in the project, partly because I'm an asshole, but mostly because we don't have a good track record when it comes to successful renovations.

Allow me to take you back about a year ago, when my dad endeavoured to renovate the kitchen while my mother was on vacation. I was expecting the counter-tops to come off, all the cupboards to come out, removing the backsplash, etc. etc. All that ended up happening was the mournful removal of a useful spice rack, the stove being disconnected for no fucking reason, the backsplash simply being painted over, and for the icing on this delicious pastry, our counter-tops being painted with some shit that you're only supposed to use outside on your steps, or driveway. I don't even know how you manage to screw that up. There was pictures of people outside on the fucking can.

Not being able to use the stove was a pain in the ass, but starvation wasn't nearly as worrisome, or perhaps as fascinating as watching my father toil away in the face of continual failure and disappointment. You see, the instructions for this material read very plainly that you only need two coats of laminate. It was around coat number seven that my father began to wonder if he'd just destroyed our kitchen and was beyond the point of no return. He'd try and get my brother and I enthusiastic about the project, perhaps in an effort to reverse his mistake, but at a certain point we had a difficult time acknowledging him as our father and instead just stared at him with looks of blank disappointment.
　
I've never seen someone try and ignore their own better judgement for so long before. At some point he actually ran out of laminate and went out to buy some more. Five coats later and he finally called it quits. The counters weren't going to get any smoother, our kitchen anymore hideous. Naturally the counter-tops were smoother than a pair of titties, being that they were frozen in perpetual laminated terror and looked like stinky asshole, like Han Solo's carbonite prison. The edges of the counters, however, are something that frequently appear in my nightmares.

My father underestimated the viscosity of the material, so while painting it on it leaked over the side to create what is essentially a cheese grater that stretches the entire length of the counters. Every edge is serrated and has every intention of fucking up your hand if you aren't paying attention opening the dishwasher or getting a spoon from the drawer. Best of all, my father didn't bother to cover up any of the drawers or knee cabinets, so bits of material splashed on everything and froze without my father noticing. Being that this material is made to stand up to a fucking ice chipper, my father was forced to violently scrape the material off, making all of our cabinets look like they barely survived a bombardment of shrapnel. The cabinets looked like any building in Stalingrad circa 1942. If the goal of the project was ultimately to surprise my mother, my father certainly succeeded at that. I thought she was going to shit an onion when she got home.

This wasn't the first renovation disaster. My dad unexpectedly blew a hole the size of a basketball in the wall of his bedroom once, we sawed our bathtub in half to remove it, then we had to whip a rug out of the top window of our house because we couldn't get it down the stairs, which left an enormous, penis shaped crater in the front lawn. Well, I suppose those weren't the best examples I could find. Those were all fucking awesome, especially the bathtub. I've never seen anything so goddamn bitchin' in my life. It was like the cover of Metallica's St. Anger album came to life and punched my eyeballs straight in the dick. But the key difference between those examples and this bathroom renovation, is that those were funny, this isn't.

Yet my father is still skipping about the house, acting like he just high-fived an orgasm, completely disregarding his past experiences. I'm much less optimistic. My faith in humanity died long ago when they discontinued Astros candy.

Bastards