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Liz's archive of shitty articles on ScaryMommy.
My interest is piqued by this one:
Dear Family: Don’t Touch My Sh*t
My interest is piqued by this one:
Dear Family: Don’t Touch My Sh*t
When we moved from Atlanta to Philadelphia, it became crystal clear how little of our shit was actually mine — there were four boxes of books and two seasons of clothes. And don’t anyone dare say the “household items” were mine because I will cut a bitch. Also, that is sexist and I will not put up with anyone being a “tool of the patriarchy” in this house.
The Nutella is mine. All mine.
Get your own, fuckers.
Nutella is my happiness condensed into a jar of hazelnut spread, so come hell or high water, no one is to touch it, eat it, or bask in its glory but me.
And if by chance I happen to forget to replace my own Nutella, then certain death will be ravaged on your souls if you dare touch the Tostitos queso. Please note my warning as a reminder of the stakes.