Got home tonight and what did I see under my desk?  I bunch of fucking paper bags.

My Fucking Father has continued to harp on me to clean up my stuff.  I think it's totally fine and that a little clutter, even on my desk, isn't the worst thing in the world.  Typical passive-aggressive bullshit from him -- do it, I'm watching you.

And to think I fucking listened to him when he said my clothes were dry last week.  He just wanted to use the fucking machine himself.

Goddamn, it's fucking on now.