I clean house the way I'd kill a rattlesnake — fast and furious,
like the dirt's about to bite back. My white towels are in shreds
because I just hurl the bleach on top, and I've lost many glasses in senseless dishwashing incidents. One day, enraged by the calcified dill clinging to my refrigerator's crisper, I jerked the thing out and it cracked right down the middle. In the rush to take care of all my worldly goods, I was destroying them.
like the dirt's about to bite back. My white towels are in shreds
because I just hurl the bleach on top, and I've lost many glasses in senseless dishwashing incidents. One day, enraged by the calcified dill clinging to my refrigerator's crisper, I jerked the thing out and it cracked right down the middle. In the rush to take care of all my worldly goods, I was destroying them.
Cleanliness may be a worthwhile goal, but the time it takes
to get there feels like an insult. What happened to my meaningful, art-filled life, the one I should be having instead of
moping at the end of a mop that smells of “Sunlit Meadow”?
