It made me cry. It didn't hurt, but there was something painful inside that was waiting for release. I think it may have something to do with the "it's Tuesday, and everything you were going to do today to manage job instead of its managing you did not happen and you are in the same, ditchy place as usual, as last Tuesday and on through approximately 350 Tuesdays."
Home, salad, knife, mistake.
Bandages inconveniently located in precariously-stacked medicine cabinet, which already has been purged of unneedables and expired things. They did not make 1920s apartments with much storage. Two closets, a few cabinets and that's that. We don't have armoires anymore.
Bandages box was thrown at bathroom wall. No harm done; box is ancient, aluminum, takes dents and weeping well.
Curb Girl: what an urban-based accidental journalist accidentally thinks when she's falling face-first on figurative pavement
2 comments:
This is one of the after effects of unmollified scrunchy face and cumulative bashed car syndrome. Best treated with fudge and strategic caresses from life partner No. 1.
I can't believe people would comment this.
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