|Doesn't this just scream..."comfort?"|
I guess I should explain more clearly: MY FIANCE AND I LIVE WITH MY PARENTS. Yes, I know what you're thinking, but it was a fiduciary issue, that became a necessity. I think today marks the day we are halfway to our savings goal, and THAT RULES.
I do not like writing downstairs. I feel like my mother thinks I am playing Solitaire or "just looking at your phone for the millionth time." She is also constantly interrupting me, to perform a chore, or to point out I don't know how to cook.
So, she yells from downstairs to me, in my room, upstairs.
|I may run up and down these sixty times a day, yet, I am still a chubby bunny. How does that work?|
Her: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?'
Her: "OH. DON'T YOU WANT TO COME OUTSIDE AND EAT SOMETHING?"
Me: "NO, I HAVE SOME WORK TO FINISH UP, I WILL BE DOWN IN A BIT."
Fun facts my mom likes to forget after giving birth to me, and knowing me thirty-two years. One, I hate the sun and two, I never eat before like...three in the afternoon. My stomach is constantly wrought and I can't even eat without smoking pot, there, I said it.
When I come down, she stares at me, makes a comment that pissed me off, so I went right back upstairs. Thirty seconds later, I hear her yelling.
|I love spending time with people who yell at me constantly. Don't you?|
Her: "WHERE ARE YOU?"
Her: "OH." This translates too: "I must have pissed her off, but I don't really care."
Me: "I WILL BE DOWN IN A MINUTE."
So then I slip my sweatshirt on, as not to offend anyone with my "tattoos that are merely for attention", and prepare myself for the inevitable: I am going to be vacuuming something, very soon.