You were colorful. You were peanuts and M&Ms and Diet Coke. You were impeccably sliced melon and lovely cheese. You were macaroons. You were vegetables and ranch dip. You were mini Reeses and peanuts, did I already say peanuts?
But no matter how many ways I arranged you on my succession of tiny paper plates, in three successive meetings, which took place all over town, you were not, nor will ever be, dinner. And that's a fact.
Thanks for trying, though,
Dear wreck of my house,
You don't have to say anything. I know. I haven't organized or straightened or cleaned, really, in weeks. Weeks? It feels like weeks.
However, I hope you don't think the above admission means that any organizing, straightening, or cleaning is imminent.
It's really not,
Do people actually mend anymore? I like to mend. I want to mend the tiny hole in this garment, the small seam that's come undone in the other garment.
Question: where is my needle and thread?
Question: when will I have the time?
I am bored of how much of you I do, complaining. I am all ready to sign up for the new, non-complaining regimen, where it will be all everything is shiny! No, I will not tire you with any tiresome whining!
Yet, here I am. You, complaining, are apparently requisite.
What's a synonym for requisite? Apt?
Aren't you over yet?
Seriously, get on with it,
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