I did not eat chocolate...
You see? All that cellophane is still intact.I did not do dishes...
Fortunately, Johnny did.I did not do anything else around the kitchen, either...
I actually do have a kitchen-progress tale to share,
but Mr. Writey's got it in the basement with a knife to its throat.
If you want to hear it, tell him he knows how to get in touch --
but I don't negotiate with terrorists.
I did not make the bed:
In my defense:
I was just about to (make the bed, that is),
but then I discovered Johnny had gotten confused,
thought the clean sheets I was about to use were dirty,
and threw them back in the washing machine.
So then they were all soapy and wet, and so
-- yes --
I slept last night with no sheets on my bed at all.
And no, they are not the only set of sheets I own.
But they were the ones I wanted,
and no sheets are better than wrong sheets.
Der.
(It made sense to me at the time. Shut up.)
P.S.
Look at that center pillow.
Tell me I did not dream failure last night.
Thank you.
And last but not least, I did not fold laundry:
Come on, now. We have met, right?
You know I don't fold laundry until it interferes with the television!
So, then, you have every right to ask: what did I do?
Well, I won't say. But I was not inseminating turkeys, that's for sure!
Some very handsome fellow in that clip apparently fancies himself Destructo.
He is Wrong.
6 comments:
Laundry - as an apartment dweller, it sucks not having my own washer and dryer. It also sucks to pay a dollar per wash and 75 cents to dry. But being able to run 6 loads at once really keeps me on top of things.
Homey - Sup!?!
--upstate
LC -- Seriously, the day we got the washer/dryer (not these ones, but our first one, in the skank apartment) was The Happiest Day of my adult life.
Upstate -- Seriously, I have a dose of writer's block so bad it has progressed into what One Friend is calling talker's block. Tomorrow, I swear to god, I'm going in the basement with a baseball bat and wrestling the motherf*cker. Tune in to see which one of us comes out victorious!
(P.S. Does it mean anything, Freudy-wise, that I've assumed my writer (and his block) is living in my basement? Wouldn't a normal person put their thinker in the attic? Does that make me anal retentive? Or am I just being reimbursed for all the poop jokes?
Oh wait! Wait! I think that might have been him! The writer! Did that sound like him to you? He's a little pale and shaky, but I'd know that smell anywhere.
I think I might just be able to catch him if I'm vewy, vewy quiet. And if I lay a trail of chocolates by the basement door.)
(P.P.S No, I do NOT want to discuss the Freudy implications of my basement-dwelling writer-monster shaping up to be a him.)
Tell us a story about what made your skanky apartment skanky, and why you are so glad you don't have to deal with it anymore.
Of course Writer would be in the basement. The attic is where you keep the half sibling half monster that nobody knows about. Hmm, that certainly sounds lots more weird than I meant it to.
Take another day off. Play hard to get.
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