Why I hate my dad.

I decided to attempt to be a normal child and eat dinner tonight. I made dinner for my mom, who has a bad cold, and made my own raviolis (220 cals, which really isn't all that bad for dinner I suppose. Still too many...).
My dad asked to have my leftover sauce, since I'm not a fan of chunky sauce, so, being the nice person I am, I said yes.
I wanted to make brownies, because I'm starting to PMS again and I was really craving something sweet.
Of course, because my dad's on his own fucking diet, no one else can have anything that tastes good. He saw me with the brownie mix box as he started making his dinner.
"No."
"I've lost eighteen pounds, I think I can have a brownie or two, dad."
"You can just put those back, and go exercise."

Fine, okay, whatever. I put them back, and I go to clean up my dinner. And the sauce goes in the trash.
I got screamed at for a fucking accident.
Went upstairs and angry-cried for about ten minutes. I cry when I get really fucking pissed. And I don't like getting yelled at for no reason.
Then my mom goes down, in her sick, coughing, practically dead state.
She comes back up. Starts talking about how she's not taking sides (even though I'm pretty sure it's obvious who's in the wrong) blah blah blah she doesn't like when we fight, and starts crying because it's "her fault, because she was too sick to go to the store".

First of all, he makes me cry, now he has to make my fucking mother cry too?! God, I hate this man. I really do.


I can't wait to get out of this fucking house.