Heck, it’s happening here — now. I’m busy composing a stinker even as I consider defaulting to a reblog. That seems like a real wuss move, though. What I should do is just not publish a post today. I should cut my losses and walk away. I’m not under contract, so why am I banging out a pointless, embarrassing post?
I’m avoiding the shower, if you must know. Getting cleaned up is exhausting. For starters, I have to take my clothes off. I hate taking my clothes off, they’re warm. But let’s say I manage to get in the shower — it will be hours before I drag myself out. Looking in the mirror afterwards I see the frightful reflection and think, ‘ohmygod, I can’t fix this.’
I need the Red Cross or FEMA; I need disaster relief. Panic sets in while I scramble around in a desperate attempt to restore order. I don’t know where to start, but I can’t go anywhere looking like that. It’s too awful. So I grab blow dryers and brushes and wands; I comb and spackle; I sand and caulk and varnish. It’s an intensive do-it-yourself project, one better left to professionals.
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