Raviolis

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The moment I figured it out, it was an epiphany. It hit my like a ton of bricks. I didn't expect it because for the longest I had known exactly what I was aiming for. Things had begun to fall apart again, and I just didn't want to zip it all back together again.

My father had called from the store; my brother gave the phone to me.

“What is your homework situation?” He bellowed.

“I have some studying to do for a test/quiz,” I responded, “it's about World War I.”

“Alright, just get off the computer.” At this, I scoffed in my mind. I was typing for a school assignment. Parents usually can't understand this, so I was forced to spell it out. Of course.

I clarified: “Um, I'm actually using the computer for homework related purposes.”

“Whatever. Just get finished. What do want for dinner?” He was snappish, as usual. Talking to my dad on the phone is as precarious as walking around an alligator that happens to be a light sleeper.

“What? Oh. I don't know what I want.” I retaliated brilliantly.

Bam. It hit me like one of my sister's outbursts of burning hatred, which appeared more often than anybody really liked. I now knew exactly what was wrong. I never had known exactly what I wanted, and neither did anyone else. It constantly changed, the object of ambitions or affections. That's why I was feeling so out of it before.

“Hey!” The phone at my ear leaped out of my right hand, which was holding it, and fell into my lap. I picked it up.

“Oh, right,” another brilliant response, “just get whatever.”

“I need more than that. Why are you making me pick out dinner?” He griped. Why couldn't he have enough ingenuity to choose a meal himself? Oh yes, it was because he was a man.

“Just get raviolis or something.”

“Fine.” He hung up on me, which I was glad of for the moment. I could revel in my original thought. When I get those, it becomes a good day.





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