Let’s say the normal person’s standards for a clean house are here —-.
Mine are here —–.
The Butcher’s are here —–.
I told him a week ago that, if he couldn’t get one of his friends who needs money to come sweep and mop and dust and clean the bathroom to tell me that instant and I would hire someone to do it.
Yesterday, the Butcher cleaned the house.
And I fucked my fucking shoulder a-fucking-gain “helping.” Because cleaning the house sucks, which is why I wanted to hire someone to do it in the first place. Who can sit around and watch someone they love do it?
So, I’m just fucking pissed at myself. I don’t feel like I’m back to square one, but if I was on square six on a one to ten square system with ten being “fine,” I fucked myself back to three.
And then I want to be pissed at the Butcher, but he never said to help him.
So, there you go. I only have my dumbass self to blame. I kind of want to cry about it. But I’m still basking in the glow of my 8500 words.
Still, it’s going to be an interesting Thanksgiving, since I can’t lift, carry, or open anything.