Cleaning the apartment: when I exclaim [to a massive mile of clothes in various stages of being clean/dirty and or used] “Goddam! These clothes are driving me crazy”– Richard comes back with– “Well, what do you think they’re doing to me?” 

What should I do?

Say: Richard, goddam it mother-fucking hell! I didn’t mean that. 

I was washing dishes when he got home, I laughingly remarked that we needed a maid– he replied, “I agree” with such implications of defense, defense, defense.  

fuck fuck fuck

I need to get out of here.