That’s my scream of frustration as I try to get my mom to start packing. Her apartment is a bottomless pit of scraps of fabric and paper; hats from the 50s; shoes he doesn’t wear; little boxes filled to the top with assorted paper clips, bits of string, nails, rusted washers, broken pencils, dried up pens………. But she watches so that I don’t thow anything out.
The packed boxes are piling up. I have no idea where she thinks they’re going to fit in the smaller space into which we’ll be moving.
I’m just tired of arguing.
And I still have my own packing to do.
aarrgghh!
aaarrrgghh!
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