Dear Sperm Donor,
In case dragging you upstairs to see the fruits of my purging-cleaning-reorganizing labor over the holiday weekend wasn't a hint, I figured telling you dead on that I was DONE with living in a shithole full of clutter would do the trick. To be abso-fucking-lutely sure, I told you that it would be a great idea if you and the crotchfruit cleaned up the room you sleep in that used to be his, and for you to clean up the top of your dresser that you insist live in public space. Because when I'm DONE, I'm DONE - and I might just take it into my head to extend my purging-cleaning-reorganizing energy all over your shit.
Since you spent the holiday weekend partying with your brother-in-law while I busted my hump on the upstairs, I figure my request for one day per weekend dedicated to getting this shithole in order wasn't, well...out of order. How convenient of you to find a weekend's worth of shit to do at other people's houses instead.
Not for nothing, but I'm all about helping a friend out. But as my father often said, "Charity begins at home." You're dancing on the edge of a rude awakening, Sparky. You don't want me to get it into my little ol' head to clean your room myself, unsupervised (and by the way, thank ALL the gods we no longer share a bedroom, 'cause all those clothes you leave on the floor? Yeah, I'd be havin' me a bonfire with 'em.).
Funny how you asked me the other day, as I carried my toolbox to my truck, if I was moving out. Honey, if that's your end game, just cut to the chase and say it. 'Cause I'd be happy to do so...and you can live in your own shitpile and I won't cry any tears about it.
Hugs 'n' kisses,
DT
In case dragging you upstairs to see the fruits of my purging-cleaning-reorganizing labor over the holiday weekend wasn't a hint, I figured telling you dead on that I was DONE with living in a shithole full of clutter would do the trick. To be abso-fucking-lutely sure, I told you that it would be a great idea if you and the crotchfruit cleaned up the room you sleep in that used to be his, and for you to clean up the top of your dresser that you insist live in public space. Because when I'm DONE, I'm DONE - and I might just take it into my head to extend my purging-cleaning-reorganizing energy all over your shit.
Since you spent the holiday weekend partying with your brother-in-law while I busted my hump on the upstairs, I figure my request for one day per weekend dedicated to getting this shithole in order wasn't, well...out of order. How convenient of you to find a weekend's worth of shit to do at other people's houses instead.
Not for nothing, but I'm all about helping a friend out. But as my father often said, "Charity begins at home." You're dancing on the edge of a rude awakening, Sparky. You don't want me to get it into my little ol' head to clean your room myself, unsupervised (and by the way, thank ALL the gods we no longer share a bedroom, 'cause all those clothes you leave on the floor? Yeah, I'd be havin' me a bonfire with 'em.).
Funny how you asked me the other day, as I carried my toolbox to my truck, if I was moving out. Honey, if that's your end game, just cut to the chase and say it. 'Cause I'd be happy to do so...and you can live in your own shitpile and I won't cry any tears about it.
Hugs 'n' kisses,
DT
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