I need a snorkel
these cotton blends come in waves
much like nausea
I’d have a sparkling and witty post for you today, but I’ve been buried by an avalanche of laundry. It’s a good thing I have really long Elastigirl fingers so that I can type this while I search for air pockets amongst the stinky and seemingly reproducing shorts and shirts and underpants and other sundry filthy apparel.
When I’m rich I’m going to hire someone. This someone will come to my house, cart away my dirty piles and piles and piles of laundry, then return them, clean and folded. I will pay this person generously and buy him or her a nice Christmas present, not just a Simon Malls gift card or a bag of cookies. I will laud this person. I will lavish him or her with praise and riches.
Until then, I need a snorkel. The waves of clothes keep knocking me down. Underpants cling at my heels like seaweed. Blueberry stained Onesies mock me with evil, tittering laughter. I’m like the Little Mermaid and my dirty jeans are Ursula. They hold me hostage, refusing to give me what I want (a smokin’, yet cleanly clad, ass). But they tempt me. They whisper coyly, "wash me on Hot and see what happens." I fall for it everytime.
Curse you, Ursula jeans!
And curse you, too, laundry!