June 13th, 1973
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.