Get a Job

(Companion piece to Breadwinner)


By: RDV


Who did he think he was?


Who was he to demand money from her?


Hey, man, you never even bought me one single Mongol pencil when I went to school. That was my mother. That was my aunt. That was my grandmother. My grandfather. Your father. Where were you? Just where were you? I don’t remember you landing a job and going home with a paycheck on a given day. Never.


And now you’re fucking fifty something. I’ve gone to that corner of the world where money is easy but the nature of the job, ambiguous. No description. Just like my relationship with you. It couldn’t even be called fluid, because fluidity suggests positive, right? But hell, nothing’s so positive in anything you lay a hand on, you defiler!


Well mister, because you wouldn’t get a job I was forced to be your money cow, your fucking work horse. But now, you can no longer drag the horse to the water so they say so I’m giving you up altogether. You and your band of freeloading fuckers.


What’s that? Oh, a thousand bucks to date that seventeen-year-old slut? No? Then what for? You think I don’t know? You’re the one who doesn’t know. I’ll tell you some more you don’t know. You seem not to know a good deal of things.


Let’s start with…oh yeah…do you know that the person I call my mother got a stroke because you were a philanderer? Why did you even marry her? Just for the record there is a prerequisite for marriage and that is called monogamy, something you have again and again failed to stand by. Why did you marry her? So that you could go through that matrimonial farce just so you could finally take a hold of your inheritance, meager as they were? Well good, because they’re all gone now. The only bad side to it is, you’re pestering me for money.


I should’ve been married with a nice family now. Just that you’re still hanging around my neck, pulling me down, flaunting me my responsibility as your daughter. Hell! If daughters were born to pay their good-for-fucking fathers’ bills, fun or otherwise, then what’s the purpose of work?! I can’t settle down because you’re around, insisting on your luxury which I can’t even provide for myself. You think that just because I have a well-off boyfriend I could support the bulk of you? Puh-lease. I didn’t win the fucking lottery. You think you’d even hear of me when I win it? No such luck.


Oh god. you’re useless. The bunch of you. The picture of a conjugal life down the drain. Under the present circumstances, how am I to get through?


Where do I begin?


By killing you?


That’s fair enough.