I don't know what date this will show up under but it was originally to follow "...today" posted 11 November 06--I refuse to rewrite it to protect the innocent.
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That was not only trite, but depressing. That's what happens when you stop to act on a particularly self-abusive idea while trying to make sense of the disaster that is your house. Seriously, this place has gotten to epic proportions. Some readers might tsk and shake their heads--those are the terminally ill, known as "Born Organized." While others will identify and nod and say geez...I'm glad I'm not the only one.
This post, I'm afraid will not be funny, entertaining or in the least amusing...it's mental diarrhea, the flushing of a series of thoughts that strike me as I work.
* This is aimed at the spousal unit...I'd love to just scream it at him, but he'd get hurt and yell back and we'd not accomplish anything. So imagine a nice, PMSy rage and cover your ears, if you like..
Why can't you get off your huge ass and do SOMETHING, anything, constructive?? You sit at a computer all fucking god-damned day at work and the first thing you do when you get home is sit on the computer until 3 fucking AM....and wonder why you don't sleep well, feel well...anything well. Anything that gets done I either have to do it myself or ask you and then wait while you play your game...until it's usually too fucking dark to get the job done right.
I bought the hose hangers...2? 3? months ago, you made a half-ass attempt to hang one and fucked that up...I'm wondering if it ever got done properly. At least you do your own wash.
*throws something large and imaginary and goes back to trying so sort through her own crap* I guess it just annoys me that he can sit, with no apparent guilt, and play the game we both like while I'm working...even if it is on my own accumulated mess.
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