You're terminated, effer.

"You still don't get it, do you? He'll find her! That's what he does! That's ALL he does! You can't stop him!"

 There is something in this world that gives me worse dreams than even the quintessential bad guy who Just. Keeps. Coming. I speak, of course, of The Terminator.

Something that instills even greater terror in me.

Dishes and laundry. Dishes and laundry. Dishes and laundry. I haul, load, rinse, fold, unload, put away, then with a relieved sigh and tired bones I turn around. The scary music starts. Just as frightening as a gleaming metal exoskeleton crawling toward me?

Dishes and laundry laugh at me. Point their fingers and mock the time and energy I expend to get them "done." And do you know what they say to me?

"We're NEVER done, B$%&#!!!

One of these days Tyler will come home to dirty plates and unfolded piles of clothes, strewn across the floor, shattered and riddled with bullet holes.

And still they will come.