We the Cheese

3: Meeting cheese

If I thought packing was bad, unpacking was even worse.

When you unpack, you have to find a place to put everything, then Mom says it looks awful and you have to do it again. Then again because apparently I have no fashion sense whatsoever. According to Mom anyways.

And if its according to Mom, it's true. According to Mom.

According to me, the coffee table looked fine with the color of the walls, but according to Mom, it looked like poop.

And since it's according to Mom, we're repainting the living room.

Great.

I swear she want our new house to look like the Buckingham Palace. Or the White House. Or Will Smith's house. But let me just say this, we don't have any money.

Actually we have money but we won't after building the Baker's Palace.

"What are you doing!?" Mother screeched in my face, eyeing my resting figure.

Jesus, did she have to yell so loud?

"Starting to form a headache, thank you," I snapped.

"You have to go to school tomorrow, don't you want to sleep on a mattress in the house!" She scolded, referring to my bed which was currently hanging out in my new front yard.

"There's a lovely couch down the hall with my name written all over it." I grumbled.

"Honey, last time you slept on a couch, you ended up with a broken wrist." Mom sassed.

"And whose fault was that?" I blurted angrily.

Crap, why did I say that? It was my fault...

Mom sensed my dilemma and raised her shaped eyebrows at me, a smirk planted on her face.

"Yours," She said simply because apparently it wasn't enough just to know she'd won.

I just grunted and buried my head in my arms which were resting on the floor.

Yeah, I was laying of the floor.

I didn't even have a pillow. I was that exhausted.

"Oh my god, Liam get up!" She ordered frustratedly.

I groaned loudly, frustrated as well, then quickly pushed myself to my feet, stared at my mother, the stomped off to get a box of junk.

I still hate boxes.

Jumping down the stairs with a frown adorning my face, I ran into Luke.

"Woah, Lee Lee," He teased, "Don't need another broken wrist, do you?"

How does this kid not have ears as big as a ceiling fan?

I pushed past him, trying to continue on my path to the junk filled moving truck.

"Oh, and by the way, I call the couch!" Luke called, grinning to himself as he turned and marched up the stairs.

I pushed open the front door and proceeded to open the back of the moving truck containing our belongings.

Grasping one of the largest boxes I could find I strolled back into the Baker's residence.

And just because Mom had yelled at me, I spent the rest of the day moving my mattress into my room, setting up my new abode, and putting away other things packed in cardboard.

****

Damn.

Just.... damn.

This is stressing me out.