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I had a fight with my pop today. I don't even remember why, exactly; I think it started when he came downstairs and saw me watching Jarhead on TV and got angry for some reason. Later I yelled at him, and he replied with some smugness that I can't recall, but I remember the conversation ended with him sneering that I don't read Jane Austen. Growing up, I was always jealous of those lucky children whose fathers drank Bud and belched while watching "The Game" and threatened to take a belt to their kids if they didn't buck up during football practice. I don't think my father's oppressive brand of passive-agressive, myopic intellectual elitism really instilled the right values in his children. When he gets mad because my brother blasts his shitty extremist hardcore music with total disregard to the other people existing around him, and I lose my temper and tell my bro that if he doesn't turn it down I'll fucking do it for him, he has nobody but himself to blame. Anyway, I get my silent revenge by drinking all his booze. I'm going to read Mansfield Park and then tell him to shove it. Ah, family.