Wash, then Dry

Points earned lately = +1 for making buttermilk pancakes. And, literally, that’s it. I’ve kind of forgotten that working all day has it’s downside in that I don’t really have time to read or write, and exercising afterwards might make me suicidal. And working on the weekends is the toughest of all because you know everyone else is at the beach, and the irresistible urge to take down your Facebook profile creeps in, like it did that time you were in the hospital for Halloween. 

But, you know, work is work. You get paid for it. And no matter how much I want to frolic with the animals, read about magic, and explore places in the Triangle, I want a washer and dryer more. (I’ve taken to wearing my clothes about eighteen times. The laundromat is a scary, scary place where I live; the university constantly emails police reports about psychopaths hiding behind washers, waiting to mug those who come in alone or with knock-off brand-named products. Trust me, that is a LOT of people in Greenville.)

So, I sit in wait. For the day when I can feel like real people again. For the day my clothes are clean, my house is organized, and the big pile of laundry doesn’t come alive and talk to me in my nightmares.

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