Living the Ikea Life
(Or... I hate my house)
I haven't gotten rid of shit with this move. And I'm not going to. EVER.
Just kidding.
None of our mother fucking shit matches together. NONE OF IT! It is fundamentally completely fucking different. He's got stupid little decorative steel globes and old Kurt Vonaican'tspell books that don't even match with my books. And all of his furniture involves granite and honey colored wood. I don't know what kind of wood it is because I don't bother learning the names of things that would make me want to puke if they were in the same house that I have my mail sent to.
And now they are. They just sit around going, Oh look at me Terra in all of my ugliness.
The worst part? They're expensive. Expensive expensive expensive.
My stuff? All looks really nice, but it's from Target... and one of those discount Vietnamese furniture stores, so really it doesn't fucking matter. And I want to get rid of most of my shit anyway.
I don't want the couch my ex picked out, the tables he was supposed to pay me back for but never did, the chair he bought me for my birthday. I don't want this shit.
But I don't want the Irishman's stuff either. And I can't exactly say, HEY, throw out that FUGLY really expensive coffee table... and pictures.... and matching couch.
And then I'm going to get rid of all of the stuff that I bought when I was 18 and moved out AND THEN, we'll have NOTHING! TA FUCKING DA!!
fuck
PS
Can you believe that yesterday the Irishman had a problem with MY vocabulary? He was all, Sheesh, could you at least TRY to be feminine?
All because I said that if I were a guy there was no way I could get it up to fuck some stupid chick we know. Puhleez. That IS feminine talk! It was catty and backstabbing. If I got any more feminine I'd have stabbed her in the back with my high heel.
