Tuesday, June 5, 2012


He took the laundry out of the dryer, and put his only pair of jeans into it, wet from the washing machine, along with whatever else was in there, and threw the gigantic pile of freshly dried clothes onto the couch, slammed the dryer closed, and went to bed.

It is the ultimate middle finger to me. Because I have to fold it. And I have to unload the dishes, and reload the dirty ones, and scrub the pots, and prepare three square meals a day, and clean up after each of them, and tend to the disgusting bathroom, and scrub our one and only tub, and our toilet, and scrape toothpaste chunks off of the porcelain, and once again, do the laundry, and clean the floors, and run the errands. All of it. All the time.

And when I sat here, tonight at the table, and peeled a dead piece of callous off the bottom of my foot, and he looked at me in disgust, and said, "Where did that piece of skin go?" Why the fuck do you care? I will be the one to vacuum it up tomorrow.

 Me. Not you.

I used to get weekly manicures and pedicures. I never had callouses.


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