Ok, so the house we live in is... special. It has more problems than an entire city. If someone flushes the toilet while I’m in the shower, I get burned. When they turn on the sink to wash their hands right after, it rivals liquid nitrogen. Back and forth. Super fun. Wires are put together in no particular order, and I’m pretty sure it was partially built with popsicle sticks. **Disclaimer: My parents didn’t know any of this when they bought it. The original family lied thru their teeth**
Tonight, we had what is quite possibly our 300,000th disaster. Backstory: I found a wet spot on the carpet yesterday. No big. Then it grew... a lot. Come to find out tonight that the wet spot goes all along the cupboard. Fantastic. Best part is that, in his highness’s hoarding, we’ve had a stack of extremely heavy boxes of flooring, sitting in the spot we need to get to, for around 15 years. “I’m going to redo our kitchen floor”... said the man who won’t even paint.
Obviously, we had to move those boxes to get to where we could see the floor. He decides that the perfect place for these boxes is exactly one inch away from my beautiful, and irreplaceable, wood music stand. Awesome. I moved them a whole six inches over, so my beloved stand wouldn’t even get close to getting hit. This was unacceptable. The narcissist moved them back. Why? Because he can’t be so inconvenienced as to have to walk six inches further to look out the front window. Heaven forbid! The world may end! I mean, how else is he supposed to know exactly what the neighbors are doing? Six. Inches.
I’m done just threatening to get rid of things. Things that haven’t even been seen in years? Buh-bye! Actual garbage? See ya! And to keep with the thought process of a narcissist, if I don’t need it, it gets trashed.
I’m done living in a landfill that requires a hazmat suit to enter.
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