: the crazier it gets, the more compulsive I become :

So let’s all take a step back, take a deep breath, unclench, and behave. I’m exhausted.

Tornadoes, floods, wildfires, snowstorms, pandemics, democracy teetering on the brink and what do I do? Vacuum. Endlessly. Lint roll the upholstery. I lint roll the dog. I do laundry and dishes. Conduct frequent covid home tests, which involves sniffing the cinnamon sugar — if I can smell it, I pass. I arrange cupboards and the refrigerator in strict regimented alignment — all labels centered and facing forward. I spend my days showering, tucking in shirttails, polishing shoes, then going nowhere but the armchair — where I perch tentatively on the edge, worried about leaving a butt impression on the cushion. 

Who lives like this? I do. Although living is a poor choice of words.

Then, yesterday, there was a snow storm. Well, a stinging, pelting rain first, followed by heavy snow and single digit temperatures. As a result, today is a skating rink kind of day, what with the ice and all. I hate skating rinks. And winter. So I perch on the edge of my armchair and dream of buying a flamethrower, so I can melt everything in my path when I walk the dog. What a relief it would be to stop worrying about breaking more bones or skidding off the sidewalk into oncoming traffic. 

Recuperating sounds restful, but it isn’t. It’s stressful. And painful. And I don’t want any part of it. So where does one go to purchase a flamethrower? And how much do they cost? Are they awkward to tote around while walking the dog? Heavy? Could we roast wienies or just incinerate them?

See? I need help. As everything around me spirals out of control, I bear down hard and maintain complete order within my surroundings. Except for the bed. I never make it. Sheets and comforter and pillows lie helter skelter, wrinkly and twisted. Doesn’t bother me a bit.  Explain that one. I can’t.

However, in all the madness and mental chaos, I’d like to draw your attention to the correct year in the copyright below. I may have the catbird seat in Ye Olde Booby Hatch, but I’m keeping a sharp eye on the inconsequential details. When I’m not hyperventilating.

copyright © 2022 the whirly girl

6 thoughts on “: the crazier it gets, the more compulsive I become :

  1. That’s hysterical! I was so proud of my self when I changed the year my copyright. It warms my heart to know you feel the same way. Now if only I could get you to vacuum, clean, lint roll and organize at my place. Just don’t touch my bed ;-)

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Okay, that does it. We’re related. Somehow. I know it. Which entitles you to a family discount — 99% off compulsive cleaning services. No tipping and no complaining when you can’t find anything, since I tend to stuff things in unlikely places.

      Liked by 1 person

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