I must be getting better...

'cause now, I'm about to become so pissed off that I can't see straight.

This house is so fuckin' fucked, it may as well be a whore's cooter.

Not that I expect any of these manly men around here to become Merry Maids or anything, but... Jesus.
When the main maid is sick for three days with God only knows what, would it KILL these buttheads to maybe do the goddamned dishes, do ya think?

Well, apparently, THEY think it would, so they took no chances at all with that.

And, it's not like the other night, Sr. didn't break out the deep fryer and smear 90% of the surfaces in there with oil.
'Cause, HE DID.

Of course, he cooked, too.
Which counts, I suppose, but not much, because oh, whoo-hoo, he can keep himself from starving.

So do maggots.
And, ya know what?
They don't do dishes either.

I suppose this is my fault.

I mean, not only did I get sick, but I've also spent the last five years trying to "un-wreck" Sr.
I've succeeded in unwrecking what the BC did, sure.
But...
I've ruined him in another way, obviously.

And, ya know what else?
Don't stand there, repeating "I love you" like a short-circuiting robot when I'm standing in the midst of a totalled kitchen, searching in vain for a frickin' cuppa coffee.

Number one, I don't believe you.
Number two, shut up.
Number three, PROVE IT by not making ME hafta cleaning up three days of other's people's cumulative DRECK!

If you love me so much (at all), why then does the kitchen look like it does?

The rest of the house put together ain't as bad.

And, NOBODY (Bossman) can blame it on Buford.
He's been with me the entire time.
Behaving very well, too, I might add and just did.

Goddamned dog has more sense than these.....

*sigh*

So.
No more barfing after that last time that I kinda asked for, in a way.
I've eaten a coupla little things a coupla times.
Haven't really regretted it yet.
Although... how to put this....

The "barfman" has decided to implement the "down" aspect of the internal elevator.
Make that the "express elevator", IF ya know what I'm saying.

Puts a whole new twist on trying to storm through the crowd of critters sleeping on the stairs enroute to the library.

As in: When I say move, fuckin' MOVE!!!!!!!!!

Yes.
I have entered the "fear of farting" phase.

"Is it a fart? Is it not?"

"In bed" is no place to try finding out, lem'me tell ya.

And, no I haven't done that, thank all that is good and holy, but only because I decided early on that it'd be worth walking to the bathroom just to fart, if that's how it turned out.

And, it hasn't yet.

Every time I get that feeling, I take the walk and, ultimately, am glad I did.

Can't wait til this is over with.
Hope I'm in a size 4 by then, too.

Oughta be.
Jeezus.

Anyway... still alive.
Kinda almost pissed about the house AND looking for advice/arguements about why I should or shouldn't be, so if you have any thoughts on this, let me know them.
If I do kick ass around here, I'd at least like to be correct in doing so.
Back still feels like it's been kicked around by pissed off lumberjacks for a solid week.
Headache has pissed off.
Mostly.
Except for when I saw the kitchen...
And, *knocks on skull*, no more barfing, YAY!!!!!!!!!

Now, about being pissed at men for not having the what? foresight? heart? giving a damn? whatever... to keep up with shit for me while I'm dying...

Be pissed at that, or not?
And, if not, WHY NOT?

Lay it on me.
Save a life....

Posted by: Stevie at 10:51 AM

Comments

Posted by: remtwoxqiv at August 23, 2007 09:45 AM (Pb954)

Posted by: errol1980 at February 26, 2009 03:43 AM (tkBnz)

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