Okay. Ya know what? 'Scuse me, but...

Ed Harris you are not.
This ain't "Sweet Dreams", nor am I Patsy Cline.

However, it IS well within the realm of possibility that I most certainly WILL react much like she does when he says it should I ever hear your version of the "Oh, Poor Patsy. Boo hoo." bullshit again.

How dare you, may I ask?

Mock ME?

Oh, that's just lovely.

Thanks.

Jerk.

Now, see... I realize a few things about this whole "getting more fucked up by the DAY" situation and YOU don't seem to realize one very important thing.

What I realize is that this is probably partly my fault for trying to compensate so much for what the BC did to you.

I went too far.
Or have done it too long.
Or something.

It's a relatively small debris cloud right now, comprised mostly of socks, boots, sweat shirts, used paper plates and those stupid wicker-like holders for them, empty soda cans... that kinda shit... but, it is blowing up in my face.

And, I am getting tired of it now.
Moreso and more quickly when I have to listen to sarcasm.

Why is that (STILL) your first reaction?

I'ma tell ya something... you keep acting like I'm her and I'll BE her, damn it.

You want behavior from me that would actually JUSTIFY your shit?

That can be done.

Just keep it up.

Typical Taurus, here.
Put up with insane shit forfuckin'EVER, then, when it's E-FUCKIN'-NOUGH, like this is, I get pissed.

I am now idling at "highly annoyed".
With bursts of RPM-age up to "Hey Cat? You gonna be home?".

And, the only reasons I've been able to throttle down that much are:
a.) George came home for lunch and let me vent.
b.) I spent an hour in the damned bathroom reading and smoking and drinking coffee and lighting cigarette after cigarette, too.
c. Xfire.

I'm not suggesting that you PEOPLE should have to come in from work and clean the motherfuckin' HOUSE, okay?

God for-fuckin'-bid.

It'd take me a goddamned YEAR to get it straight again.

That is NOT what I want.

Got that?

What I want, like it fuckin' matters, is just for you not to fuck it up literally, exactly, and just as fast as I get it clean.

Just have the tiniest modicum of respect for the work, if not (again, God for-fuckin'-BID)... me.

We all have this little... arrangement around here.

Y'all (the ones who stand to piss) work outside the house.
My "job" is keeping up with you chucklefucks and taking care of... oh, EVERYTHING.

Fine.

I kinda rather like this arrangement.

I don't hafta spend hours a day out in public somewhere, eatin' a lotta shit.

I get to do THAT in the comfort of my own home.

And, I get to do what I want, when I want, pretty much.

I mean, I can't pick up and go to Georgia (lucky for you people), but other than big ticket shit like that, I pretty much have complete freedom to do whatever occurs to me.

That part I like.

Fuck man, I like both parts, til we get to where we are now.

I also realize that, at heart, most men are just natural slobs.
I'm fine with that.
That is job security for me.

But, what you do is beyond that.
Then, to add ignorant-assed sarcasm as your instant, INGRAINED response... yeah.
This is fuckin' workin'.

And, the reason that it's NOT WORKING is that you don't seem to understand one tiny, but highly significant, thing...

Sad as it is, much as I hate to even admit it, I, like most people, define myself by what I do.
Unfortunately, I look more at what I do around here, in this house, than I do HERE, writing at Xfire.

And, when I see the total lack of respect for the work I do around here, it pisses me off.
(Much like the lack of comments makes me feel kinda like I'm a Basengi...)
(Google it.)

So, I struggle, on a daily basis, to convince myself that that lack of respect is not directed at me, personally.

Then, when you made snide asshole remarks instead of being the slightest bit supportive, you kill things in me, frankly.

First they bloom up sending me into a "I need to punch something" RAGE, then...
they die.

I just don't need this shit, ya know?

And, if it being killed is the way you wanna make it so that I don't hafta deal with it... well, that's too bad.
It's not the only, what should be first, or best alternative, but, you don't fuckin' listen to me about anything else.
Why make an exception for this, right?

Right.

Fuck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*deep breath*

Okay, I have now unclenched my fists, teeth and asshole.

I can breathe again.

But...
ah, ah, ah...
I am still on a hair trigger, here.

Not at you guys.
You.
*points at moniter*
Not pissed at y'all.

But, as a public service announcement, I feel compelled to say that, if you live here, you'd best leave me the fuck alone for a while.
Capice?
Good.

Now, y'all may be wondering about his reaction to this.

Won't be one.

He doesn't read me anymore.
Which, in my "twisted, probably PMS-ing, female, little brain" (/sarcasm), I take as the first measure of how much less he cares now than he used to.

That was the first thing of many.

Including, but not limited to, and not the least of which (by a long godamned shot) is him pulling the sarcastic, mean and as much as hateful "Oh, yeah. That's right. Nobody CARES!" routine on me this morning.

Oh yeah.
That's right.
That's helping.

Ya know what I wish I could do?
Come back, about a week after I'm dead, JUST to see how fuckin' disgusting this place would be by then.

These shitheads can't even lift a fuckin' toaster cover back up to re-cover the toaster after they've pulled it OFF.
If they can manage to pull it off, then they eat, thus actually gaining strength, how can it be that the goddamned thing is too heavy to put BACK ON?

Can someone please, for the love of FUCK, explain that to me?

Why, oh why, Dear JESUS, why must boots be left either right in the middle of the fuckin' floor, or, even better... in DOORWAYS???

Maybe I shoulda just quit insisting that they take their boots off in here instead of outside so that the stupid boots wouldn't be ice-cold in the mornings.

Maybe I shoulda just let 'em freeze and not have to put up with them not being phyically capable, it seems, of putting them less than six feet from where they do leave them, in the huge baskets, with the other shoes.

My fault.

Even if it isn't, oh yes, by God it IS.

Just ask 'em.

And, the mess around here?

My fault too, because they're MY cats and Christ knows it's the fuckin' CATS fuckin' everything up.
THEY'RE the ones leaving Sr.'s clothes all over hell's half acre.
Yep.
Them.
They're the ones who leave DISHES all over the fuckin' livingroom, too.
Uh-huh.

Aaaand , they're also the ones who greet me and my concerns with sarcastic hostility.

They're not the ones who make putting up with their shit (literally) by being glad to see me, lovin' on me and making me feel good and laugh all the time WORTH IT.

Please.

If the mess was 100% cat-generated, I'd bitch at them.

I'm not stupid.

Stoned, yes.
Hence the willingness to engage the cats in conversation.
Stupid, no.
I can tell the difference between THEM and YOU.
(*mutters something to self about all of them put together being less aggravating*)

And, due to the fact that they're simple-minded animals, I'd never expect them to help me maintain things a little.
Not even at all.

I wonder what his excuse is?

Fuck me runnin'.

Anyway...
I'm gonna go clean the motherfuckin' house again.

Then, ya know what I might just do?

As soon, and I mean the bare INSTANT, I finish, I may just lose my shit and deliberately fuck it up MYSELF.

Take all the FUN out of it, ya know?

I asked George, "Hey. Ya know how this place gets trashed almost faster than I can clean it?"

He nods.

"Do ya think if I fucked it up myself he'd then clean it, if for no other reason, even, than to continue to undo what I've just done?"

He shook his head.

Shit.

Still, there's a certain craven, glittering attraction to the idea or mental image of me just going fuckin' NUTS and tearin' this place all to hell.

Then, when I get asked what I did that for, I'd just look him right in the eye and tell him I just wanted to see how it felt to be on the other side of this equation just once.

Plus, at least that way, I'd be cleaning up my OWN mess for a fuckin' change.

Not that I don't do that already.

What?
You harbored some insane idea that anybody around here would do that for me?

Why, you big silly, you.

And, on that note, I am now gonna go get one more cup of hot, delicious coffe, take it, and my ass, back up to the bathroom and smoke my fevered brain out, I don't care how much it makes me cough.
I don't care if I cough til I hemorrhage.
I literally do not care if I cough my way to a pulmonary fuckin' EMBOLISM, I AM gonna do what I must to calm the hell dooooown and get my head "right" to do what needs to be done.

To the house, that is.

And, after that, I thankfully won't have enough energy left to do what ELSE needs to be done around here, which involves massive ass-kicking and delayed name taking.

FUCK!

Posted by: Stevie at 03:17 PM

Comments

1 Yes, this is what catches my eye.... Someone that feels the same way I do about the house. I am supposed to work and then still come home and clean, cook and do dishes...BIG FAT BS!!! Only the cats and dog actually listen around here...lol.

Posted by: CIndy at January 06, 2007 08:55 AM (Iigtw)

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