Don’t just strew things.

After this long together, both of our heads are filled with such minor admonitions, helpful hints about the other person – likes and dislikes, preferences and taboos.  Don’t come up behind me like that when I’m reading.  Don’t use my kitchen knives.  Don’t just strew things.  Each believes the other should respect this frequently reiterated set of how-to instructions, but they cancel each other out: if Tig must respect my need to wallow mindlessly, free of bad news, before the first cup of coffee, shouldn’t I respect his need to spew out catastrophe so he himself will be rid of it?

Margaret Atwood.  "The Bad News." Moral Disorder

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