I know how to load a freaking dishwasher you insane crackpot.
Another case for the “are you fucking kidding me?” file:
The other night, after inviting herself over to spend the night, g’s mother stood in our tiny little kitchen yapping at me about some dumb thing or another while I loaded the dishwasher with dirty dishes. I didn’t run it yet because it wasn’t full.
The next morning, after everyone had gone and my weeping had ceased, I opened the dishwasher to add some more things and put in soap. I discovered that g’s lunatic mother had taken everything out and RELOADED it. That’s right. Sometime in the dead of night she snuck into the kitchen and reloaded the fucking dishwasher because she didn’t like the way I had done it. For reals. For total reals.
Okay maybe I exaggerate a little. It probably wasn’t dead of night. It was probably in the morning when she woke up and Nicholas & I were in one of our rare sleeping moments.
Come to think of it, I remember hearing a bunch of clanging dishes early but I just rolled over on the couch thinking I was lost in one of my horrible flashback nightmares of when we lived with her. Because her favorite thing to do was bang around all manner of dishes & cupboards at quarter to the crack of dawn, seemingly intent on waking the entire house and neighborhood and city and country and world and galaxy and universe.
I do believe I’ve built a solid case for justifiable homicide, no?
Today’s post introduces a new category: Flames, on the side of my face. I’m pretty sure the rest of my entries for the rest of my days will safely fit into this category.
Because of how easily enraged I am, you see.
Also: are you fucking kidding me?
There are no words. Only flames.