Hey, remember that day when I almost, literally, GOT PUNCHED IN THE FACE.

No? Well, I suppose I should tell you about it. I suppose I should set the scene first: I run out of the house after my dad screams at me in his underwear from the top of the stairs that I need to cool off and Dingleberry leers at me from the door leading out to the garage with a thin, beige cigar from his mouth like a goddamned woman-hitter.

Happy Christmas, everyone. I came home yesterday morning, in the biggest blizzard the cities has seen yet this this year, and I drove straight to church for rehearsal. I'm singing on Christmas day. I contacted the girl who plays piano on Facebook, and I said can I sing with you guys? And she said rehearsal is at 10 a.m. on Saturday--see you there. And now I have a cute little solo in "Silent Night"--I sing the verse in Spanish, noche de paz. I'm excited. The last place I sang in public was a bar. A much better venue, but interestingly, I'll dress just as nice.

This morning I wake up to hear my sister and Dingleberry having a conversation with Dingleberry's boss at Sam's Club. For some reason, they have the phone on speaker. I hear it all. Dingleberry says: I can't come in to work today, because my ride is sick. Dingleberry's boss is pissed. He says you're kidding me. You're not coming in today. Dingleberry says, I can't come in, my ride is sick and I don't have a driver's license. His boss says something passive aggressive--rightfully so--and I hear the phone click and I hear Dingleberry say asshole. I'll fucking slap his fucking face off.

His ride is not sick. His ride is my sister, who is on the couch, laying there like a whale with a broken fin, with the garbage can next to her as though she's about to throw up. She puts the garbage can next to her when she's about to throw up. It's so people believe she's sick. I don't fucking believe she's sick. If she did throw up today, it's because she ate too many chocolate-covered peanut butter Ritz Christmas cookies. It's because she probably put too much fudge on her ice cream, after heating up the jar in the microwave with the aluminum lid on. (No, that was last time. Dad had to buy a new microwave. The old one had a burn mark in the bottom that looked like a shitty skid mark. (You see, I'm developing a theme here with this fucking Dingleberry.))

Anyway, this conversation pisses me off. Maybe more than it should, maybe not. Maybe because I'm off my meds for three weeks and my mind is feeling things more intensely again instead of in a haze. Anyway, this conversation pisses me off.

I call my mom's cell so she can relate to me about how ridiculous this is. She doesn't answer. My heart rate increases.

Dingleberry has informed his boss that he doesn't have a ride, and there are no other rides available in the house. I'm available, but he didn't ask me. I decide I'm going to take Dingleberry to work. My sister is "sick," but really, it's just below zero and she doesn't want to go outside. I'm going to Maple Grove anyway. I'm irate that Dingleberry has called in "fake-sick," and I don't want that piece of shit around all day. That motherfucker is going to put on his fucking blue vest, and he is going to fucking Sam's Club. This is my mission.

I don't tell Dingleberry right away. First, I shower, then I put on some mascara and lipstick, then I wait for Travis and Dad to get home from church so I can make Travis come so I don't have to be in the car with Dingleberry alone.

Dad and Travis get home. I tell Dad what has transpired. Dad just says Amanda, dammit, you're not sick, and then I say C'mon, Edward [remember, that's Dingleberry] I'm taking you to work because I'm going to Maple Grove anyway. I say this much more angrily than I intend to, I really do, and I feel bad about it. But I've started a ball rolling, a big ball of angry, and I cannot stop it.

Dingleberry doesn't answer me. I say: Edward. It's ridiculous that you aren't going to work. My mom works fucking two jobs a day, and you're just sitting there taking advantage of my parents on that fucking couch, and I'm offering to drive you to work, so you're fucking going to work.

Meanwhile, my sister, who is graduating from couch college magna cum laude I'm sure, is screaming the entire time. Nobody can understand her when she screams. At least when I scream, people can hear proper pronunciation. This is what 3 years of voice lessons got me in high school. I think she's screaming about being sick and she and my dad are going back and forth about that. Then I start in on dad, and I tell him that I'm sick of this fucking loser in our house, and that I'm sick of him living here for free when Amanda shouldn't even be living here, and of course Dingleberry hears all of this and pokes his skinny little elf head up from the couch.

I've told you that Dingleberry has an anger problem, right? Dingleberry has an anger problem.

He says to me what the fuck did you just say to me? And I am sort of getting into the fight at this point. I have a lot of anger inside of me for a lot of reasons about this damned kid, and I just take a deep breath--suck up all the heat of the room into my throat--and I holler up the stairs: FUCK YOU! Perfectly pronounced, the consonants clear.

It feels good to say that, but my dad isn't happy. Travis has found the dog and cuddled him in his arms and the dog's shaking and Travis says Bourbon's scared in a tender voice that makes me realize I'm not myself. I am ashamed for yelling, for adding to the behavior in this house, but I can't control myself. The anger, the beast, has taken over. My hands are in fists. My mascara is running down my face. Dad hasn't even taken off his coat from church yet. What's gotten into you? He says. Goddammit, Jean, you need to calm down. But I don't want to calm down. I want Dingleberry--I want my sister--to know what soul-sucking pieces of shit they are. Somehow, this has become my mission. These people need to know they are assholes. It is my job to let them know.

--I think I have to interrupt for a little disclaimer here. As I was screaming, getting worked up, feeling my heart beat outside my chest like a timpani played by a three-year-old, my dad kept saying to me What's your problem, Jean. You don't even live here. I say, of course, so loudly that my voice squeaks: Neither does he! He's a fucking stranger! But, I do sort of get my dad's point. I do--the rational side of me understands this. My parents have decided to let themselves be okay with this. They let themselves get abused, they constantly help my sister, they let her boyfriend live in our house, they buy them food even though "Edward's a good housemate, because goddammit, he buys his own food, Jean." But I bet he doesn't buy his own toilet paper. I bet he uses my dad's toilet paper to wipe up his dingleberries. I bet my dad thinks he's a good guy because he actually paid for the hole he left in the door with his laptop when he got pissed and threw it. What a good guy. ... Where was I going with this? Ah. So, I understand that my parents are mad at me--they already think that I take somewhat of a "holier than thou" persona when I come home. I tell Travis to do his homework and that he shouldn't wear the same outfit for four days in a row, especially when he sleeps in it and whatnot. I make comments about Amanda getting a job. I come home, and I demand things change. This isn't fair to them. They see me as the disrupting body, coming home, yelling at people, telling my sister she's a piece of shit and whatnot. So, I just want to throw it out there that I'm mature enough to get how my parents are frustrated with me for coming home once every couple of months just to light a bag of shit on fire on their doorstep. But, I don't really fucking care. And I am just so annoyed with them--for letting this kid and my sister take advantage of them, that I've decided, whether or not I fucking live there that I have enough authority to come home and tell my sister's fucking boyfriend that he is the laziest motherfucker I've ever seen and that it's ridiculous that he takes advantage of my parents the way that he does. (Although, it is clearly my sister who does much more taking-advantage-of.)

Back to the scene. Dad, me, Travis, the dog are in the entryway to the house. Travis and the dog have big, wet eyes. Upstairs, Dingleberry and the fat sister are on the couch. Everyone is yelling, especially me, and especially my sister, who is wearing dirty pink pajama pants and a tank top without a bra, and everything about her body looks like it's just a bunch of bean bags sloppily duct-taped together. Actually, I'm surprised she's gotten off the couch to move over to the railing so she can see me as she yells.

Then I say Edward, the fact that you aren't going to work is fucking ridiculous. And he says to me Yeah, well, maybe I don't want to fucking go. I had to push carts outside yesterday and it was really cold.

It is exactly at this point that my head explodes. Like something bursts in my brain and my skull grows and grows until it explodes into tiny pieces. I am a cartoon. I scream, then, something like OH MY GOD, BUY A HAT YOU LAZY SONOFABITCH and I talked to a lady at church yesterday who lost her job and can't support her daughter, and you are telling me it's fucking cold outside? You have a free, warm place to live, when you could be homeless, and you're telling me it's cold outside?

I am so angry I can't close my eyes. I can't blink, and everything in the room has a whiter hue to it.

Things then calm for a bit, somehow. Dingleberry goes to have a gross ciggy in the garage. Travis and the dog go downstairs. Dad goes upstairs in his room to change out of his church clothes. I am pacing back and forth in the kitchen, and I feel dizzy, and I feel sick, and I'm still really pissed off. It occurs to me, then, that my sister lied about something. She told my dad earlier that they had "cleared it" when Edward called into work. But that's not true. Edward's boss was pissed at him. So pissed, in fact, that I worried whether the line you don't bother coming in today, then don't bother coming in at all was going to cliche itself over the speaker phone.

Because my dad had said Jean, don't worry about it. It's cleared, you see, it's cleared.

I didn't care that is was cleared. There were people working extra-hard that day minus an employee because his ride was pretending to be sick and I was offering him a ride. I was holding a big sign in my hands that said HEY, DUMBASS BE RESPONSIBLE! HERE'S YOUR CHANCE! And he took a big shit all over it. A big Dingleberry shit.

I ran upstairs to my dad's bedroom, and I said Amanda's lying you know. That wasn't cleared.

Dad said: Goddammit, I know she's lying. look, I don't know what you want me to do. Mom gave them an ultimatum to be out in February, so just deal with it until then.

Dad, I said. First of all, I fucking doubt that that will happen, as he's been here for 7 months and you've played that card a hundred times. Second of all, if he pulls this shit and doesn't go to work, he's not gonna have a job. [the Jeano anger builds] And are you really going to put them out of the house if neither of them have a job? No, you're fucking not.

Dad tells me again that I don't live there, and when I say you work full time and mom works two jobs he just says your mother works two jobs so she can make her car payment. (Oh, Dad, and she'd make that payment much easier if she wasn't spending so much money on groceries to feed that moose who lives on your couch.) And I storm out of his room leaving the words that fucking kid needs to get out of this fucking house! behind me. I go downstairs and start to pack to leave. I'm still screaming stuff in the kitchen, when Dingleberry comes down and walks into the garage, through the garage door. I'm crying, and I'm pissed, and I can't even think to find my keys so I'm running around but I can't even remember what I'm looking for. Before he shuts the door to the garage, Dingleberry says to me (Oh, Kristin, this is going to piss you off so badly)--he looks at me and he passive aggressively mumbles as he starts to shut the door behind him: You just need to shut the fuck up.

I consider this the equivalent to someone eating my leftovers in my refrigerator (from my favorite restaurant) after walking into my house off the street and saying: these leftovers are gross. I consider this the equivalent to someone stealing my purse and then telling me there's not enough money inside of it.

I lose it. I run over to that garage door and my finger is pointing in a very angry manner, (they taught me this in teaching school, but it's a weapon I am much too fragile to use in the classroom) and I start in again about him being a lazy sonofabitch and a bad influence on Travis and useless and taking advantage of my parents. I am pointing so hard with that finger. I can't believe--it makes my body literally shake to believe--that this kid talked to me that way. That this fucking stranger in my parents' house treated their daughter like this. But it gets worse.

I am at the door to the garage, and I shut it--not hard, mind you--in Dingleberry's face. I say I can't fucking look at you anymore, and I shut the door. Dingleberry pushes the door at me, back out, and he runs into the house, and he comes at me with his fist.

He comes at me with his fist. His fist is raised, and I have no idea what to do. I've never had a fist raised to my face, and I have to admit this to you right now: I was sort of glad I got this asshole to lose his temper and attack me. I sort of wanted this. Hit my dad's daughter, I thought, and then you can get out forever. I was so ready to take one for my cause. It didn't take much provoking to get Dingleberry to raise his small, pointy queer fist to a glasses-wearing female. Of course, further evidence that this fucking psycho shouldn't be living in our already-fucked-up family home.

Dingleberry comes at me fist-first, I duck and cower, because I really have no idea what to do. I don't see what he does--swing and miss? Back off? I know how to fight girls, how to scratch my sister and pull really hard, but I suppose I don't know if I could punch somebody. I've never physically fought with somebody who could punch somebody, even if I am twice the size of Dingleberry. An odd second, the one before a fist could hit you. I realize this in the time that my pussiness flashes before my eyes. I am a big pussy. A wuss. I talk the talk, and you know the rest.

I, of course, scream Dad! Dad Edward tried to fucking hit me! And I'm crying and irate and still in disbelief that it took about 7 strings of insults--that's it--to push this guy's buttons into coming after a female. Yup, I thought, this will do it.

Dad runs to the top of the stairs in his underwear and black church socks. Amanda runs over to the railing, defending Edward. She attacked him first, she attacked him first she's blubbering. She didn't see anything. Edward's standing there, and I'm giving him the most evil looks I can muster. Whether this is worse than the pointing finger, I'm not sure. I'm crying and screaming. Dad says goddammit, Jean, you need to cool off. My innards leak out of my body, through my feet, and form a puddle on the floor. I'm your daughter! I'm your fucking daughter! Is all I can scream. Dad then says something to Edward about getting kicked out if he lays a hand on me. I'm your daughter, and you're telling me to calm down? Does anybody see how absolutely ridiculous this is? He tried to hit YOUR DAUGHTER IN YOUR HOUSE. This fucking stranger just attacked me in your house and you're telling ME to cool off. He needs to get the fuck out of here! I nearly collapse on the floor. I'm exhausted. I want my mom. She'd have to be on my side for this one. She would have to, even though she's the one usually playing Dad's role at this point and the role by Edward is being played by my sister and the excuse usually is but she has a disability.

I need to cool off. Of course I fucking need to cool off. There is no doubt about this. There is no doubt, whatsoever, that I am overreacting and that I instigated that attempted punch just a bit because I knew Edward was short tempered. But it doesn't matter. My dad should have been down there pulling this kids arms behind him and shoving him out the door. He should've been saying: tomorrow. You're out tomorrow. It doesn't matter what I did. If anyone attempted to punch my daughter, that anyone would be bleeding, on the floor, in three seconds, and my heel would be between his teeth. My dad lets the motherfucker stay in our house. He let's him date his other daughter.

But then it sort of ends. Dingleberry goes back to the garage. Dad goes back to his room after saying, goddammit, Jean, what are you trying to do to me? I'm crying and just start pacing the house, trying to find a room where nobody is staying. I go upstairs and point to my sister on the couch and tell her that she needs to act like a fucking human being. You people are ADULTS I tell them. You're fucking ADULTS. I am aware of the irony of this statement after my behavior, but I don't have much control over what I've done in the last 20 minutes. Not "not-control" in the sense that I'd punch a child, in the way that Edward would punch a girl, but my anger is the boss right now. Only when I'm at home can I act like this. Only when I'm home. Only with my family. If I get away from this, maybe I can be a normal person--because in that house is the one place where I don't blame myself. I go downstairs in between sobs, and I say Travis, don't ever do anything Edward says. Just stay away from Edward.

My car is snowed in the driveway. I need to leave the house, and I need helping moving my car. I tell my dad to do it. He takes the keys, vrooms it out, and I take the wheel and leave. I'm crying, still, and my makeup has left my face a black disaster. I wonder how I'd look with a black eye, and I sort of wish Dingleberry would've just hit me a big one in the face. I wish I'd have heard that crunch, anything, a sting in my left eye, a black and blue mark for a day or two, covered in makeup when I sing at Christmas mass--because maybe then some of this would've felt just a bit more real to me. I want to go back to Rochester. I want to be in my classroom, with my students, who love me no matter what, I think, and I didn't even have to do much to get that love. I want a new life, and I want to start my own family, and I want to make everything right, and these thoughts--these thoughts make me oddly calm. Right now, I am eerily calm.

And now, I'm at the library, and I have to decide whether or not I can spend Christmas at home. I have to decide whether I even feel safe in that house. Part of me says that I'm overreacting, that this kid isn't going to do anything. But part of me says that he can lose it, that anyone can lose it, that he can come at me first first and that my dad will just tell me that I'm the one who's out of control. I am out of control.