I don’t mind helping out at home, but I loathe washing dishes. I try to avoid the mess at all costs. Most of the time I use plastic plates and utensils. The rule in my family is whoever cooks does not have to wash the dishes. Therefore, I have made myself the chef of the family to avoid the disgusting chaos in the kitchen sink.  

There have been two times when I have loathed this darn rule. The first time was when I slaved in the kitchen for two hours creating a delicious meal of chicken, rice, and vegetables for my ungrateful family. I was so happy doing it because I was dodging the dishes. After the meal, my mom ordered me to wash the mess they left behind on their dishes. I was utterly shocked that she had just told me to do them. The rule clearly states that I shouldn’t be the one doing the dishes. I explained to her that it was not my mess to clean up. She did not care and yelled at me. I stayed an extra hour in the kitchen with my hands in that mushy water, if you could even call it water.  

When the second incident with who had to wash the dishes reared its ugly head, I no longer believed in the rule. I came home one day after a body-aching practice and bus ride home. I was exhausted and my fuels were low. My mother made food this time, which I really appreciated. When I finished eating, I put my plastic plate and utensils in the trash and went to bed. My mother then barged in my room and maniacally instructed me to go wash the dishes. I felt as if I had been rudely approached and bossed to do something that was not my problem. I had not used any of the dishes that were in the sink. We argued and yelled at each other for five minutes straight until I gave in. I put my tired hands into the mush with disgust. I wanted to throw up so badly as I had to keep unclogging the drain.  

Washing the dishes is the worst chore ever. 


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