-_-

My dad -constantly- complains about the condition of my room. And, lately, I've been getting sick and tired of tripping over things when I get out of bed at night. So, I ask him to get some boxes down from the garage. Because, last time my room wasn't clean enough for my freaking military dad, I got grounded for ten months.<br>If you have even -seen- the pictures of my room, you know I am not a clean person. At all. Period. I hate cleaning. I HATE it. I hate cleaning because my room is the size of a freaking horse stall. I am a pack rat. Horse stall room + pack rat = mess. <br><br>Anyhow. So I ask my dad to get down boxes for me. Well, the entire thing of boxes falls down off of the shelf and I get yelled at.<br><br>You know what? If you want me to clean my room. Don't complain because karma freaking hates you. And don't yell at me for doing something that you're constantly riding my ass to do 24/7.<br><br>I didn't know it'd be a damn act of congress to clean my room.