My first day home
Within 22 hours of being home, my parents have already:
- Confined me to the minivan while they shuttled broken computers between their Walnut Creek office and Compumart
- (Mom) forced me to wear my antique-finish gold Harvard ring (which mom made me buy) for the symphony
- (Dad) gave me the invaluable advice that I ‘should not spend $10, but earn $10’ when I asked him if I could subscribe to Wired Magazine
See, my parents do not obviously abuse me, which makes me seem rawther spoilt when I complain that I’m bored at home. But I believe their treatment of me upon my return home after half a year could classify as some sort of mild perversity when compared to typical traditions of greeting celebrations. I can’t wait till they:
- Speak only in Korean to me, saying each word louder while ever widening their eyes, as if their pupils will shoot linguistic-knowledge lasers into my brain
- Tell me that I should work on their business website, go swimming, and get employed at Pixar, disregarding my internship at an alternative newspaper
- Point at some assortment of homeless people as we drive though San Francisco, and highlighting all those features that I share with these individuals.
My parents aren’t all that bad, though. At least they still feed me and all.
