Q, my husband said to me today, seriously, could you possibly make this place less of a pig-sty? I come home at night and it looks like a hurricane hit the place. Or a tornado. Possibly both. Every crevice of the sofa is filled with chocolate cake fragments. You've drooled all over the cushions. There's spilled OJ all over the floorboards and slopped milk all over the rug. A week's worth of mangled newspapers are littered under the chair, and sixteen half-opened books are tumbling off the side-table. Plus the air - look, I don't want to be nasty, Q, but frankly it smells kinda stale in here. I get home from the office and I'm tempted to turn around and go straight back again. Can you do something about it, please?
You think I want to spend my days in the middle of this lot? I told him, furiously. I have the power to create disaster but not the power to clear it up. A few weeks ago I was the kind of person who yelled at coffee cup rings on the kitchen counter. Now I'm making close acquaintance with my own dead skin cells. He looked sour. Sorry, Q, but I think you could do better, he said coldly, turning tail and walking out of the room.
I threw a slipper after his retreating figure. He doesn't understand, he just doesn't understand.
-Hmm I Wonder What Would Happen If He Turned Around An Threw The Slipper Back At Her Then What She'll Will Write About :)
Posted by: melonee hendreson | July 05, 2010 at 05:41 PM