randomartdudette replied to your post
Mar. 16th, 2018 01:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/2FBdpfw
randomartdudette replied to your post “I’m doing it, I got home and instantly started getting things off the…”
This sounds like the start of a really interesting story, both in reality, and fiction. I like your way of portraying things.
I’ve just flopped down, sweaty and filthy, onto the couch after Doing The Thing, and I’m sort of struggling to conceptualize how out of all the random shit I’ve posted on my blog lately, including actual excerpts of real fiction, my shamefaced and angry confession about how disgustingly filthy my kitchen is somehow is what is a striking story to you, but. You do you. I am having trouble seeing this as anything but gross and deeply maddening.
I just used one of those green Scotchbrite scrubbies on my hands and knees to scrub up unidentifiable bits of gunk from my gross stained 75-year-old linoleum. And then I mopped it. And I still ought to go over it with the floor steamer but I’m tired, and Dude has been lounging on the couch the entire time without so much as turning his head to see what I’m doing. I guess he figures he doesn’t care so it’s not his problem. Cool whatever.
I’m so tired I’ve burnt out my mad receptors. And my tired receptors. I am going to go take a long hot shower, do a facemask, and then put the fucking kitchen back together, and then go to bed.
My houseguests are coming tomorrow at 7pm, it turns out, so I’m glad I didn’t leave anything for tomorrow night.
(Your picture was not posted)
randomartdudette replied to your post “I’m doing it, I got home and instantly started getting things off the…”
This sounds like the start of a really interesting story, both in reality, and fiction. I like your way of portraying things.
I’ve just flopped down, sweaty and filthy, onto the couch after Doing The Thing, and I’m sort of struggling to conceptualize how out of all the random shit I’ve posted on my blog lately, including actual excerpts of real fiction, my shamefaced and angry confession about how disgustingly filthy my kitchen is somehow is what is a striking story to you, but. You do you. I am having trouble seeing this as anything but gross and deeply maddening.
I just used one of those green Scotchbrite scrubbies on my hands and knees to scrub up unidentifiable bits of gunk from my gross stained 75-year-old linoleum. And then I mopped it. And I still ought to go over it with the floor steamer but I’m tired, and Dude has been lounging on the couch the entire time without so much as turning his head to see what I’m doing. I guess he figures he doesn’t care so it’s not his problem. Cool whatever.
I’m so tired I’ve burnt out my mad receptors. And my tired receptors. I am going to go take a long hot shower, do a facemask, and then put the fucking kitchen back together, and then go to bed.
My houseguests are coming tomorrow at 7pm, it turns out, so I’m glad I didn’t leave anything for tomorrow night.
(Your picture was not posted)
