My mom sprained her ankle, so she needs extra help around the house.
She can't do basic things like laundry and dishes and trash duty with a fucked-up ankle.
Fine. I do most of that all the time anyway.
I did your grocery shopping. I Tetris'd the shit out of your freezer twice so that I could fit your freezer foods in there since you don't want to throw away the four containers of chicken grease you're storing in there for Armageddon/the Zombie Apocalypse.
I cleaned the cat's litterbox even though that's my brother's job since the smell makes me nauseous and dizzy, and doesn't phase him at all. I adventured outside in the freezing fucking cold to get the new litter from the car that he forgot to bring in earlier. I fed the cats, watered them, cleaned the floor, washed your toilet even. I need to clean the bathtub at some point because it's kind of gross but that's not important so I'm not going to bother with it now.
I finish all this, lay back down in my nice warm bed, get under my blankets, get comfy...
"Could you do the laundry now? The basket is in the hall. kthxbye".
I. JUST. GOT. COMFY. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.
Plus I haven't slept all night. I woke up yesterday at about 6PM, maybe a little before or after, I don't remember. But I haven't felt well and as a result I sleep all kinds of fucked-up hours plus I stayed up the other night reading a book but my sleep was fucked up before that so shoosh. I am so tired that holding my arms up to type is tiring.
I am not complaining about chores. I live here. Chores are a part of living here. ...and life in general. I don't care about chores. I feel good when I do housework.
I just hate being interrupted when I JUST FUCKING GOT COMFORTABLE
and now I have to leave my blankets and be cold again.
PS? when I was in the bathroom cleaning the litterbox and doing all the other shit I was doing I looked and couldn't find the laundry basket so I had no idea the laundry needed to be done, otherwise I probably would've just grabbed it and done it while I was running up and down the stairs, anyway.
Now I get to carry 30 pounds of laundry down the stairs, trip over my grandmother, shove it in the washer, hunt for the detergent, spill detergent all over myself, come back upstairs for the hour and a half that needs to wash, forget about it for another hour, dry it, and forget the load is in the dryer until someone asks where all the clean clothes are.
This happens every. single. time.
I do love my life.