Why why why why why do I have such loathing for taking my clean clothes out of the laundry basket and putting them away in my dresser? After going to the trouble of carting the full-to-spilling basket around the corner to the laundromat, after sorting and washing them, tossing them in the dryer, carefully folding them and stacking them in neat little piles, then carting them back home, why can’t I seem to perform that final task? Instead I leave them in the basket until I need it again to do more laundry, often simply stacking the now-diminished clean clothes stack in a chair or on top of my dresser.
Wisk. Surf. Gloom. All. Gain. Dread. Tide.
Is there a disease called hoboism? Surely there must be. Sufferers of this terrible malady find they slowly get shabbier and shabbier, and more and more unshaven. Their clothes become tattered and frayed and they find themselves inexplicably drawn to alcohol. Because of their illness, they are unable to work. As the disease progesses, they begin to see little pink elephants everywhere. Eventually, every time they come across a pie cooling on a windowsill, they feel the compulsion to snatch it away and devour it hungrily behind a steaming Supercan.
Today, I felt like I had a touch of hoboism–I got mud all over my khaki pants as I was going to work. I forgot to shave this morning. And I had white dog hair all over my black shirt. Oh, and during my lunch break, I stole and ate 3 cooling pies from the window of a nearby cottage.