"Cleeeeeeeean!”
" Clean your f*****g hoarders quarters, Rob"
I bellowed it. I was angry, but that was because I was hot. It was summer and I swear, the ozone layer was at my f*****g window. It was hotter than f**k, and I hate heat.
“I am cleaning,” Rob said.
I stood in the center of my husband's workroom and stared.
He was a hoarder. But he refused to believe it no matter how many times she told him or pointed it out.
There was… stuff as far as the eye could see. Nails in baby-food jars, loops of rope, screws, hammers, sand-paper. There was a crab bushel full of electrical wire and it appeared to be severed at both ends. Both. Ends.
What the f**k was that for?
“This is not clean,” I whispered. “This is an episode of one of those shows about those deadbeat murderous people who hoa
