Arguments Are Never About What You Think They're About #467: (Tired Of Shovels)

"Who the hell bought this?" Frank is holding a six foot snow shovel up in the air.

"Why are you yelling?" Mary walks out of the kitchen drying her hands on a towel.

What IS this?

That's from Sandy Durkin.

We live in fucking Arizona, Mary.

Maybe it was a joke, Frank, I don't know.

"Jesus Christ". Frank opens his mouth to say something but then closes it and squints his eyes aggressively.

Calm down Frankie, your head's about to explode.

This is what I'm talking about!

Snow shovels?

No I'm not talking about...Jesus...CLUTTER. Clutter. I can't live like this Mary.

Mary looked around the entry way of their home. She looked at the desk against the wall, the circular mirror hanging opposite; the row of shoes and boots lined up by the door in order of size. She straightened the papers on top of the desk so that they were all lined up in parallel lines. "What's wrong Frank?"

I'm tired of this. I'm tired of the waste. I'm tired of living in a house with people I have to be polite to. I'm tired of having to explain myself. I'm tired of jerking off in the shower every morning. I'm tired of my job. I'm tired of my angry boss who wears a toupee and talks about everyone behind their back.  I'm tired of Sally Durkin--

Sandy Durkin.

What?

Sandy. It's Sandy. You said Sally.

Are you fucking kidding me?

They look at each other, possibly for the first time ever.

I'm tired of your friends. I'm tired of your black hairs in the sink. I'm tired of eating tacos on Tuesday nights. I'm tired of driving. I'm tired of having to clip my nose hairs. I'm tired of having to button my pants. I'm tired of the birds. I'm tired of the neighbor's barking dog. And I am, without a doubt, seriously, completely, wholeheartedly tired of shovels.