What are you doing for Thanksgiving?

David just asked me which dates I want to go home for Thanksgiving because he wants to book the tickets now. Tonight. You know. In the middle of finding an apartment. Sometimes being married to a man who likes to check things off his to-do list is just fucking annoying.

So, I told him the same dates as last time just to get him to shut up so I could stop thinking about going “home” because it just stresses me out. I don’t want to think about the cheap awesome apartment I used to have all to myself, with my best friend living downstairs. I don’t want to think about my sisters and which one is being particularly asshole-ish right now. I don’t want to think about my mom and how hard it is to only see her once a year. Or my friends and their babies that are now toddlers. Just one fucking heaping pile of shit at a time please.

Then he wanted to know if I wanted to land Monday. Or Sunday. I’m like, “Are you fucking serious?”.
He is claiming that he has to “buy them now” so “he” doesn’t spend “thousands of dollars” more, which is just his passive-aggressive way of saying “get a job”. And he’s right. I do need to get a job. And he needs to learn that his coffee cup doesn’t magically find it’s way back into the kitchen, wash itself and hop in the cupboard. The crumpled piles of clothes he leaves all over the bathroom don’t separate themselves into warm/cold/dry clean/clean and hop into the washing machine and then crawl into his closet.

This separation of pays the bills/housework is getting old. But it’s not all my fault. I’m sure somehow it’s his fault too. I just have to keep searching for the reason why.

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