First you bitch at me for cleaning the bathroom more last night. And then out of the blue during dinner you tell me I should start a diet this year. Fuck you, OK?
We are not moving -- or at least I'm not. So unless Grandmother starts shitting all over the floor, it's clean, despite what the voices in your head might tell you. And I know I need to go on a diet. I just don't like it when you tell me I need to go on a fucking diet. Kind of like the time you, you know, tell me I need to clean the bathroom more. Or, basically, do any other fucking thing you think needs to be done that doesn't. Which you seem to do every single fucking day.
Just for that, I'm going to be drinking not one but two sugary drinks tonight. Just because. And if you want me to go on a diet, I'll won't the dinner you cook. How's about that?
Asshole.
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