My Messy House is Getting to Me

The amount of anger I feel when I wake up to a messy house is unreasonable. I'm not in any physical pain, yet within minutes my insides are scorching. My soul is on fire; the rage radiates directly from my heart - I swear I feel it - and extends like an asterisk to the tips of my fingers and my toes. Call this OCD or call it neat-freak, I call it biological common sense. No, I won't die from the mess (but the stress may kill me). My kidneys will not stop suddenly, on strike, because the dishes are in the sink. My pancreas will not go on an insulin boycott and my heart certainly won't STOP beating because there are two inches of dirt on the floor. No, I will continue to function, but the mess in my house is fucking pissing me off.

I can't expect my husband, my teenage son, or my 6-year-old daughter to want to clean. What they don't understand is I don't WANT to clean either! I want it clean, I like it clean, and I'd love if someone else did it (according to my criteria, of course). It is scientifically, sociologically, and anthropologically proven that "clutter in your house is clutter in your life."

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