Let me tell you a little bit about the fucking bubble baths. That is really what they are called because it pisses me off beyond anything else on this universe. When I first met Mike he didn’t have a shower curtain on his shower. I thought that was really weird until I realized he didn’t take showers, he only took bubble baths. He also only ate Pop Tarts, but that is for another story. Anyway, I eventually moved into his apartment. One night at about 3 in the morning I realized that Mike wasn’t in bed. I stumbled into the bathroom and to my horror found my boyfriend dead in the bathtub. Or, that’s what I thought as I tried to pull his wet, lifeless, naked body out of the bathtub. I swear to God, his head was underwater. He was on his side, curled up, with half of his fucking face underwater. So, he was alive and we both scared the shit out of each other. The Ass Hat sleeps in the bathtub… all the fucking time. He even takes what he calls the shbath. This is when he puts the plug in the tub and runs the shower as he sits in the bottom of the tub. I really think he did too many drugs when he was a kid.
Denver, the destroyer of all that is nice, was coloring with crayons. I lost sight of him for a few seconds and he took aim at the fridge. I know it was Denver because he’s not even two yet so all he can draw are circles and cool 80’s hair styles. When Sir Michael got out of his fucking bubble bath and dressed himself (good boy), I pointed at the new artwork and said, “Look what Denver did”. Mike casually replied, “Oh, that should come off easy enough” and walked away. Apparently he didn’t understand me when I shot poisoned darts out of my eye sockets into his nipples. In my brain I was saying, “Since you just soaked in the fucking tub for an hour, maybe your pruned ass could get the fucking magic eraser and get the fucking crayon off the fucking refrigerator. The same thing happened when Mike pointed out the food on the wall next to the dining room table and just about any other mess in this house. He and the stinky teen also think that the end of the kitchen counter is the trash can. I have pointed out several times that if they simply look four feet to the left, they will find a 3 foot stainless steel cylinder with a lid and plastic liner. It’s called a fucking trash can.
Please note: Portrait of Mike above the crayon mess.
Mikes Future death bed.