WHY I TURNED OUT THE WAY I DID: BROKEN FOOT IN MOUTH

Okay.
This was a few years ago, now; spring break of 2001, I think. I was home from school for a little over a week, and had spent the entire time visiting family that I had not seen since I departed from Cleveland for Columbus.
Now, my father, who gets free tickets from his job, was taking the whole family out to Geauga Lake, or Six Flags, or whatever it was called at the time. I myself, being already burned out on family outings, was also not exactly a theme park kind of guy. I gladly let my sister’s friend take my ticket. I didn’t quite look forward to being trapped in a roller coaster car while my mom interrogated me on school, my friends, my love life, and other atrocious topics that a 19-year-old boy would rather jump from the highest hill of the deadliest coaster than to discuss with his mother.
I was, however, a \"stay at home while the folks are out and have a few friends over (and, mayhap, a lady or two)\" kind of guy.
But, alas, I was never fate’s favorite son.
Just before leaving for the park, my mother checked her email. When she had finished, she stood up and fell down somehow, breaking the fifth metatarsal in her left foot.
Cut to: a few hours later, we’re sitting in an overcrowded hospital waiting room. My sister goes off to watch TV somewhere, leaving me right where I didn’t want to be: alone with my parents.
Let the grilling begin!
\"So, how’s school?\" my mother, slightly doped up on painkillers, asked.
\"How are your grades?\" my father followed suit. \"You’re not slipping, are you?\"
\"Do you like Columbus?\"
\"I’m not paying that much money so you can go fuck around, you know!\"
\"Are you guys going to start looking for an apartment soon?\"
\"If I get a report card, and it’s not up to par--\"
\"Are you guys looking in \'nice\' areas?\"
\"--I swear to God, I will yank your sorry ass out of there so fast--\"
\"How are your roommates?\"
\"--and throw it into military school--\"
\"I always said they were such nice boys.\"
\"--you won’t know what hit you!\"
I swear to God, it was really like that.
Questions flew at me, one after another, and, after a short while, it occurred to me that I had made one fatal error: I was answering them. Most of them were simple \"yes\" or \"no\" questions, which were easy to answer.
Too easy.
It became habit to answer them without thinking about the consequences of my answers. And that was my downfall.
\"So, do you like your painting class?\"
\"Yes.\"
\"You’re not doing any drugs, are you?\"
\"No.\"
\"Do you like your color class?\"
\"No.\"
\"You know I’ll drag your ass out of that school if I catch you doing drugs, right?\"
\"Yes.\"
\"Have you met anyone? You know, romantically?\"
If I hadn’t been in a daze caused by the banality of the conversation and the overpowering stench of sterilized hospital odors, I may have been able to tiptoe around that tiger trap filled with land mines. But, to reiterate, repeat, and just plain say again, I was never fate’s favorite son.
\"Yes,\" I said, sealing my doom.
Boom.
Then, the real agony-inducing, holocaust-like fun began.
\"He met someone!\"
\"You met someone?\"
\"Yes.\"
\"What’s her name?\"
\"Sam.\"
\"That’s a boy’s name. Sam.\"
\"What’s she like?\"
\"It is a she, right? \'Sam\' is short for \'Samantha\', right?\"
\"Yes.\"
\"You better not be gay.\"
\"I’m not.\"
\"Not that there is anything wrong with that.\"
\"I know.\"
\"Where is she from?\"
\"You just better not be.\"
\"Does she like pot roast? You should invite her over for dinner sometime!\"
\"No son of mine is going to be a faggot.\"
\"Yes, sir.\"
\"And I’ll make a pie!\"
\"Not that there’s anything wrong with that.\"
\"Does she like apple or blueberry?\"
\"You just better not be.\"
\"It’ll be a gay old time!\"
\"Not that there’s anything wrong with that.\"
This line of questioning lasted for about 20 more minutes. The rest of the \"vacation\" went downhill from there.