I’ll admit, I’m obsessive about clutter. In fact, it’s gotten so I can’t get anything done until, say, loose papers on the coffee table are neatly stacked or the magazines we keep in the john are smoothed and stored chronologically in the cast-iron magrack.
My wife, on the other hand, is a free-wheeling clutter mole, a beautiful hurricane of misaligned envelopes and floor-kept newspaper circulars, of clipped coupons, empty boxes, and UPC codes torn from God only knows what discarded packaging.
All of which I was willing to live with before I found out she’s been killing me.
No more, though. Now — because science says so — she has no choice but to pick up after herself. And while she’s at it, she can fetch me a beer, too. If she wants me to live, that is.
You reading this, honey…?
Where do we send the flowers?
Thanks, but save your money. They’ll just end up on the living room floor anyway.
“Another 35% said they suffered from back or neck pain because they knowingly sit at their desk in an awkward position.”
Excuse me, but exactly who is causing this “problem” again? Let’s have my employer spend all kinds of money fixing up the office because I KNOWINGLY sit like a fucking retard in some convoluted, back-wracking position that, hell, even I know hurts when I do it.
Fucking rocket scientists, these people…