Rage Cleaning: My Accidental Superpower

You ever look around your house and suddenly feel the overwhelming urge to destroy everything in sight — but instead you grab a trash bag and some cleaner and become the unsung hero no one asked for?

Yeah. Welcome to rage cleaning.


First of all:

Why. Are. There. Empty. Containers. EVERYWHERE?

Fridge?

Empty carton of milk.

Pantry?

Empty cereal box, just chilling like it pays rent.

Counter?

Random snack wrappers living their best life.

Was it too heavy to throw away? Did it grow roots? Why is it still HERE?

Toss it in the bloody wheelie bin, people! (Yes, wheelie bin. Because British English understood the assignment.)


At this point, the transformation happens.

I’m basically a superhero:


●Trash bag for a cape.

●Spray cleaner for a weapon.

●Wild, angry hair as part of the uniform.

I cleaned that house! You're welcome!



I sprint through the house like I’m fighting crime, rescuing innocent floors and walls from the little villains who live here (also known as my kids and my dog Gypsy, who apparently believes she’s on a mission to spread fur to every available surface).


Essential rage cleaning tools?

Trash bag, rag, and spray cleaner. That’s it.

Who needs a plan when you have pure, unfiltered rage fueling you?


Worst place to rage clean?

The yard.

In the summer.

Nothing like stepping outside into 200% humidity, mosquitoes dive-bombing your face, kids screeching, dogs barking like they’re holding a town hall meeting...

Sweat pouring out of places you didn’t even know existed.

And me? Out there in SLIPPERS.

Because who wouldn’t want to lose a slipper, step on a rock and reflexively, angrily yeet a broken toy across the lawn like it started a fight?


Do I want help when I'm rage cleaning?

Oh, absolutely.

Except no.

Because the "help" turns into a bigger mess, and next thing I know I’m rage cleaning the help’s mess too. It's like cleaning squared.


Why do I rage clean?

I have no deep answer.

I just do.

Maybe it's survival instinct. Maybe it’s just what happens when my brain finally screams, “ENOUGH!”


After all that...

I dramatically wrap the vacuum cord like a cowboy wrangling cattle, put the spray bottle back with an aggressive slam, fluff the couch pillows like I'm putting the final rose on a grave...

...and strut away pretending I didn’t just have a full emotional breakdown over an empty Pringles can left on the kitchen counter.


Will I ever admit I was a little dramatic?

Absolutely not.

I cleaned that house like a warrior. You’re welcome.



 

If I made you laugh, cringe, or question your entire existence—consider tossing a tip my way.

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