I don’t remember a time before cleaning, except that maybe, maybe I got to eat some Mediterranean food and watch more “Firefly,” but no, that must all be a dream because if I was doing that stuff, then I wasn’t cleaning. And I. Have been cleaning. For days. (Have been cleaning. So long. Have lost all pronouns. And sense. Of punctuation).
And I’m still not done, but this is the point where you say, hey, we’ll be friends anyway, and you clear a path through the mess and get yourself to bed… except you have to make a bed to sleep in it, and… are the sheets still in the washer? Fuck.