F*ck you, Chores!

Fuck you, cleaning the fridge. How the hell do you get so dirty? I don't eat in there, I simply store food. What the fuck is that stain on the bottom shelf? Do gnomes have parties in here when I'm at work or something? Nasty little gnomes. And, for some reason, I feel really, really vulnerable when I'm bent over, scrubbing your gross shelves. Don't know why. So thank you for keeping my beer cold, but fuck you for making a mess of it.

Fuck you, paying bills. Every god damn month? Are you kidding me? I barely even surfed the web this month, I still gotta shell out all that cash? And, while I'm at it, fuck your pathetic little late fees. They're small enough for me to easily ignore them but they add up over time. So, thank you for the cell phones, heating, and the internet, but fuck you constant demands.

Fuck you, deleting old porn to make room for new porn. What man can make this decision? It's like choosing which of my kids to leave behind on the sinking ship. Fuck, this is killing me. I hate my laggy connection.

Fuck you, changing light bulbs. It's 2008, right? I figured by now technology would've at least advanced to the point where I don't have to stand on my wobbly chair and deal with this crap. Two bonus fuck yous: for scaring the crap out of me when I walk into a darkened room, innocently flick the switch and get momentarily blinded by that huge flash and terrifying pop! Also, for somehow convincing your light bulb brethren to join you, causing a chain reaction that means I'm filled with fear whenever I turn on a light. Pop! Pop! Pop! What, did you all join in a suicide pact while I was asleep?
Bastards.

Fuck you, washing dishes. Yes, I know, you smell funny, and I know the longer I wait, the more weird slime stuff is just going to accumulate on you. That's why I've pretty much switched to just using paper plates (fuck you, environment) and eating with my hands. I'm a caveman in my abode.

Finally, fuck you, writing this rant. Using my fingers is hard work.