Sunday.
The most mundane day of the week.
Early every Sunday morning, my mother and my father and my sister go to church, and I stay home. Every day at noon they come home and talk about what a wonderful sermon the pastor delivered and what a shame it was that I missed it. They reprimand and punish me over the decision they said I was free to make, all over the brunch I had spent a lot of my time cooking.
Later, after all of the dust from the Sunday morning religion debate has settled, I follow my own footsteps in my boring routine. I knit some length on my newest project, I read the works of John Steinbeck or Edith Wharton or Robert Frost, absorbed in my antisocial way of life until dinner, when I have to face my superficial younger sister and hypocritical parents for the final time of the day. If I cannot grab a veggie burger and eat it in my room, I am forced to socialize with them. They ask all sorts of nosy, intruding questions about my life, and demand answers, claiming they're protecting me from myself, or some kind of BS sugarcoated with the teachings of Jesus. Today was a social dinner, thanks to Father's Day. I was instructed by my mother to give my undivided attention to my father. I can't recall a time in my entire life when it was my time to shine, and he never gave me any extra attention, so I didn't see it fit to do the same for him.
This, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, is the weekly interrogation of the solitary misfit of the family. This is Sunday.