This is somewhat long, boring and won't bother me if you decide to skip.
I think the only problem I will ever have if I get married or just move in with someone I'm in a relationship with, is that I like Judy-time way, way too much to sacrifice it. I spend so much time alone, and used to hate being by myself; I don't exactly know when and where this all changed. I do stupid shit around my house which amuses me, but I don't know if I'd want it to be caught by another person or want it to interfere with their own life.
Why am I talking about this?
Because of the awesome week I have ahead of me (!), I had to designate today as Laundry Day (it also should have been Hair Dye Day and Vacuum Day, but that's besides the point). I enjoy being the happy little housewife to...myself, but, hate like hell to go into my basement to get to the washing machine and dryer. There are two main reasons for this: the first is that I'm horribly afraid of the dark, and the second is that it just creeps me out something hardcore. I'll be fine to stand around, waiting for the water level to fill and bopping around to the tunes in my head, when I focus too long on a particular area of the basement; look too hard at the inch of dust and brown that's clinging to everything; the way the cement floor feels to my socked feet, the faint humidity; the way there could be monsters, murderers and ghosts hiding in there, where I have to have my back turned to the rest of the room in order to face the washer and dryer; all this, and after about eight minutes, I have to go upstairs. Which is another thing in itselfthe stairway going down there? Yeah, it's pretty narrow, and you can count a minimum of two or three spiders along the way every time.
To keep me company on my last load of wash, I decided to bring my camera. [Now, you can think I'm joking when I admit to this, but: for the briefest of moments before I started taking pictures down there, I feared that I'd capture something in a photo and I'd have a heart attack.]
Here's the descent into hell.
You can pretty much imagine me standing there, turning around every 18 seconds to make sure nothing's about to eat my soul.
This is where the ghouls would be.
And now, to a completely unrelated topic: my bottom.
I've noticed that a lot today, I keep touching my butt-dimples. You know what I'm talking about, those indents over your ass, right about where the waistline of your pants is.
And because I'm not totally clueless on what the kids are wearing these days, or at least, what they were wearing last year, I own a pair of those sweatpants with words across the back. Mine just so happen to be great because of what they say, and because you can clearly see how much I've worn them out by the way the letters are fading from my enormo-butt.
In summation, I suppose maybe I should cut back on the alone-time.
I think the only problem I will ever have if I get married or just move in with someone I'm in a relationship with, is that I like Judy-time way, way too much to sacrifice it. I spend so much time alone, and used to hate being by myself; I don't exactly know when and where this all changed. I do stupid shit around my house which amuses me, but I don't know if I'd want it to be caught by another person or want it to interfere with their own life.
Why am I talking about this?
Because of the awesome week I have ahead of me (!), I had to designate today as Laundry Day (it also should have been Hair Dye Day and Vacuum Day, but that's besides the point). I enjoy being the happy little housewife to...myself, but, hate like hell to go into my basement to get to the washing machine and dryer. There are two main reasons for this: the first is that I'm horribly afraid of the dark, and the second is that it just creeps me out something hardcore. I'll be fine to stand around, waiting for the water level to fill and bopping around to the tunes in my head, when I focus too long on a particular area of the basement; look too hard at the inch of dust and brown that's clinging to everything; the way the cement floor feels to my socked feet, the faint humidity; the way there could be monsters, murderers and ghosts hiding in there, where I have to have my back turned to the rest of the room in order to face the washer and dryer; all this, and after about eight minutes, I have to go upstairs. Which is another thing in itselfthe stairway going down there? Yeah, it's pretty narrow, and you can count a minimum of two or three spiders along the way every time.
To keep me company on my last load of wash, I decided to bring my camera. [Now, you can think I'm joking when I admit to this, but: for the briefest of moments before I started taking pictures down there, I feared that I'd capture something in a photo and I'd have a heart attack.]
Here's the descent into hell.
You can pretty much imagine me standing there, turning around every 18 seconds to make sure nothing's about to eat my soul.
This is where the ghouls would be.
And now, to a completely unrelated topic: my bottom.
I've noticed that a lot today, I keep touching my butt-dimples. You know what I'm talking about, those indents over your ass, right about where the waistline of your pants is.
And because I'm not totally clueless on what the kids are wearing these days, or at least, what they were wearing last year, I own a pair of those sweatpants with words across the back. Mine just so happen to be great because of what they say, and because you can clearly see how much I've worn them out by the way the letters are fading from my enormo-butt.
In summation, I suppose maybe I should cut back on the alone-time.
VIEW 25 of 31 COMMENTS
I am feeling a little bit better today. Thanks for your kind words.