Bernard broke another computer.
I really don't understand. The boy is given everything; perhaps that's why he has so little regard for anything, though I rather think it's a patent inability to grasp the monetary value of things as he's never had a job, either. The last time we took him to apply for one, he was turned down -- he said he couldn't work Saturdays because of Saturday Morning Cartoons, and they figured his priorities probably weren't with the job. He was almost seventeen at the time; by the time I was his age I'd had two jobs.
Mum bought him a PDA once, to help him keep track of his schoolwork. He stopped using it because when he did use it he didn't have an excuse not to do his schoolwork. When it was pointed out that he wasn't using it, he "accidentally" stepped on it and broke it. I've never owned a PDA, it should be pointed out, because I could never afford one in high school and would never ask my working-class, scrambling-for-middle-class mother for one. In high school I stole books because we didn't have the money for those, either.
And now in less than a year he's broken two brand new laptop computers, neither of which he himself purchased. It's not even that which annoys me, because I know how it is to be clumsy, but the first one he broke because he wouldn't stop downloading everything that the computer told him to download (up to and including popup ads, even after we'd told him not to) and I suspect he did the same thing to this one, though he's saying he spilled soda on it.
Several days ago he spilled soda on it, mind. He wasn't planning on telling us this time, either, despite the fact that I sat down and had quite a rational discussion with him last time about how the amount of shouting we're likely to do is in direct proportion to the length of time he doesn't tell us important shit like this. I think it showed very admirable restraint on my part not to shove him headfirst into a wall. That's not a joke; I'm not a violent person by nature, but the few times I've been tempted to use physical violence have always involved Bernard. It took real effort not to hurt him that time. This time I've just locked myself in my room with the computer and am going to try to ignore the situation.
I wouldn't be so furious if we were wealthier, and I probably wouldn't be so furious if Mum's temper was less volatile. The only reason I told her this time -- I had a word with Lucky about it last time and let him tell her -- is that I won't be home for the shouting tonight.
Of course her birthday is tomorrow. And guess what? Bernard hasn't gotten her a present, either. I'm sure he'll find something; last Christmas he gave us all gifts he'd gotten at a gift-exchange party. He was given sixty dollars at the time to buy presents with; as far as I know, he still has it. Or perhaps he spent it on that Star Wars box set he bought a while back.
I understand it's difficult for him to process the world like an ordinary person, because he has Asperger's Syndrome. But AS is not a get-out-of-being-a-decent-person-free card. AS is not an excuse to be an asshole, and it is not something that can be solved by endlessly supplying his every need without demanding he put in an effort to manage his illness.
And then I get told that I'm not supposed to try and play a parental role. I suppose that should be my cue to play the unhappy sibling role, except that it wouldn't do any good. Bernard has a disability, after all.
I knew there was a reason I always hated the prodigal son.
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