All right, so it’s not, really … it’s not even raining cats and dogs … or buckets … but damn it, it’s raining, it’s a Sunday night (but Sunday nights are no longer “school nights” [although that phrase doesn’t quite affect me in the vomitous way it used to, it still nauseates me for some reason]), and I’m in my sexy pajama bottoms, ubiquitous gray turtleneck, and thick socks (the kind that some chicks, those who insist on sporting headbands and thongs, still wear to the gym), with nowhere to go, no one to see, no phone calls to return (like that ever bothers me anyway), so I’m kinda happy …
sorta …
not really … because one little thing can ruin EVERYTHING …
and that one thing is this:
I have to mop the floors. Sometime this week, I have to mop the fucking floors. Every just-in-from-the-rain footstep that we’ve taken in this apartment since the last time I mopped (lo so many weeks ago) is still in evidence, as is every dusty pawprint … and that pesky chalk outline of that smarmy guy I murdered two weeks ago is still taunting me. I absolutely dread mopping. I dread anything “domestic”, of course, as everyone knows, but for some reason mopping just pisses me the hell off. I don’t think there’s been a single occasion when I’ve mopped that I haven’t thought, and, yes, muttered (or perhaps yelled, if you can imagine it), “I am too fucking good for this.” And I always picture a movie set with a camera on a boom or a crane (whatever the hell the thing is called that looms and hovers way above everyone’s heads), and an aerial shot of me, poorly lit so that the ever-present shadows under my eyes threaten to take over my face … I just can’t stand the image. “I shouldn’t have to do this.”
Amazing how one little thing can totally fuck everything else up. It may as well be a school night.