Ah! Jesus! He's made himself into a fucking cleaning machine. He's cleaning the damn oven now. And he wants me to start cleaning my room "a little bit every day". Ok, here's my response: fuck you. I'm artistic and I'm mentally ill (and not taking my pills, thankee...), so no shit I'm messy. Do not treat me like I'm five years old. If I want to clean, I will. When do you come up to my room? Two minutes every school day to make me wake up. Does it bother you so much? I live up there!
Oh, this is so stupid! Ahhh! This is the dumbest thing to be getting mad about and all I want to do is go cut something. I want to throw up.