To :
The One with The Farm,
When you knock on my door at 6am to tell me that “Maybe I should consider making a salad,” it ceases to be a suggestion.
It is a request. You want a salad, you would like me to make it for you.
So ask.
Stop it with the passive huh-you-know-what-would-be-a-great-idea. Be direct. Ask me for the help you so clearly need.
Yes, I’m living under your roof. Yes, I’m too grown to still be in my father’s house. And technically this is your door. But that doesn’t give you the right to side step the universal embarrassment of bending the knee, bowing the head, and begging your kin to flash-fry the tumours of illegally harvested cadavers in a bed of pickled cabbage.
Sincerely,
Your (very nearly) Rotten Daughter