National Passive-Aggressive Cleaning Day
(Grab your sponge, clench your jaw, and let the resentment sparkle)
Today we honor the ancient art of weaponized tidiness. The sacred ritual of scrubbing your way through suppressed rage and unspoken grievances. This is not just cleaning, it’s catharsis with a Swiffer.
Start with the dishes. Slam them into the rack like you’re auditioning for a Greek tragedy. Wipe down the counters with the fury of a thousand ignored text messages. Spray Febreze like it’s holy water and your roommate is possessed by the demon of emotional unavailability.
Don’t forget the soundtrack. Something upbeat but seething. Think Alanis Morissette meets a Roomba. Or just blast “Clean” by Taylor Swift and pretend it’s not ironic.
Bonus points for narration:
- “Oh look, someone finally took out the trash. Oh wait, it was me. Again.”
- “No, no, I love cleaning up after adults. It’s my kink.”
- “I guess the mold in the shower was just part of the aesthetic?”
Today, every sweep is a statement. Every scrub is a subtweet. Every Lysol wipe is a cry for help disguised as lemon-scented order.
So go forth, domestic dissenter. Rage-clean the baseboards. Alphabetize the spice rack with malice. And when someone asks if you’re okay, just smile and say, “I’m just tidying up.”
Because nothing’s messier than your feelings. Except maybe the microwave.
