Having dinner with my dad is like having a hysterectomy without anesthetic.
(Or so I would imagine).
The woman sitting next to us at the pizza place gasped when I made this declaration to him. But she doesn't know the story, so I mentally replaced her shock with sympathy.
Because, truthfully, it's just excruciatingly painful to sit through an hour long meal while someone tells you how much you suck.
You're a journalist (I'm lucky to have a job).
You're poor (I'm a journalist).
You're living in a tiny little apartment (I'm 25).
You hang out with losers (they have college degrees and jobs).
Your boyfriend is a musician (I know).
And the list goes on.
And for the rest of the evening, I just sat there, sadly wondering what went wrong in my dad's life. He condemns me for having friends because "there's no such thing as friends." He calls me a loser because I have independence. Because I dared to move out of the house before I was married.
It's so exhausting. And every single week I see him, I endure these rants. I take every punch. And the circles under my eyes get darker.
And this week, I couldn't eat Chipotle for dinner or the cupcakes I made, which obviously means there's something seriously wrong with me.
I'm not feeling so fabulous.