Desperate Times. Desperate Measures.

I have no relation to Bert, the comedian whose clip is above. I don’t know who he is. I don’t know anything about him. But I’m pretty sure he is The Son’s spirit animal.

The Son, as I’ve mentioned, is home for the summer. People. My electric bill last month was double what it normally is. My water bill has doubled. Local grocery stores are about to issue ration cards to me. His car (dear God, the car) is still not running. Today, I was doing laundry and had to wait to re-enter the laundry room because he, in his underwear and nothing else, had to get his clothes. From a basket. In the laundry room. Where they have been for six days. Where he just gets what he needs at that moment. And then he leaves the basket in the laundry room: my laundry room is a small one person operation. But still, all the more reason to take both the basket containing the clean laundry and the basket which contains his linens from his dorm room (which likely includes the body fluids of a number of lovely young women of questionable judgement) and have yet to be washed. Friends, it’s been seven weeks. SEVEN WEEKS and he hasn’t washed the linens which are in the basket in my one person laundry room. I can’t.

Now, I get it, he’s a guy and guys like to walk around in their underwear and little else. However, his father rarely leaves our bedroom without a shirt on, let alone goes strolling freely about in someone else’s home (where he doesn’t pay rent). We never let him do it when he was a kid, but now that he’s 20 . . . little shithead.

I’m at the point now that I don’t even have the fortitude to request change from him. I could demand better behavior, but that would subject me to a dissertation on the federal government’s attempts to control women of childbearing age by spiking the water supply with racially discriminating fertility drugs in order to better fortify pharmaceutical sales and productivity as a bolster to freeing the dwindling populous of wild horses on the shores of the Salt River in Arizona. If it ain’t one conspiracy theory, it’s another, dude.

I’s tired, Boss. Powful tired.

Among the hottest of commodities in this house is ice. No lie. My ice maker is, like a Jackson Browne song, Running on Empty. Every time I push the lever with my cup, the fridge laughs hysterically at me. I’m so. Fucking. Thirsty.

I’m so thirsty, that I’ve taken to filling half a stainless steel cup with water in the early hours of the day and putting it in the freezer so I can have a cold beverage later. Because, you know, if I don’t, it’s Sahara City, sweetheart.

Ztrahstuiteh, bitches.

 

 

 

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