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Fights tend to start for no apparent reason. I say that was rude, then you tell me I was snotty first. It's a freakin' white t-shirt we argue over. One of mine I ruined myself with the blue detergent that sits on the washing machine. You throw it because I'm mad you brought it upstairs in the first place, when I was going to bleach it in the next day or so. Then I get more mad and tell you to not be mean to me, when really I guess I was the mad one in the first place. This isn't necessarily an apology, but more of a rant, a diary entry if I were a teenager still, complaining about what 'pissed me off' that day. So we forget about the argument, or you do, anyway, and we have a Diet Coke and fold the rest of the laundry, watching Saturday Night Live. The shirt is still on the floor and it will stay there until I really feel like moving it. Live from New York...