Dirty Laundry

Washing bedding is stupid when you’re tired because stretching a fitted sheet over a mattress takes effort. I considered sleeping on an unmade bed, but I’m not thirteen. I waited for my sheets to dry like an adult, ate blue corn tortilla chips, and YouTubed poetry readings. I hate when I hate the way poets read their work— three octaves higher than their normal speaking voice as though they’re attune to some angelic frequency; or they read flat and slow like they have gauze in their mouths. Whenever I have my first reading, my nerves will make me sound like a queer angel after a tonsillectomy, and I will hate myself.

After the dryer buzzed, I opened it to find an entire box of fabric softener sheets nestled in every fold of my bedding, all 40 of them. And debris from the box. My trashcan is full of dryer sheets and now smells like a cloud of spring rain instead of cans of Friskies chicken gravy pâté. However I managed to throw an entire cardboard box of dryer sheets in with my load— It’s the work of a poltergeist.

I have the softest pillowcases ever.

I’m convinced I want my life to be a sitcom. Even when I desire normalcy. My boyfriend spilled Pinot Noir all over my work khakis last night, so I ran to Target at 8 a.m., flipped though clearance racks for pants while wearing his small navy ribbed Jockey pajama pants that look like leggings on my legs. I grabbed charcoal khakis that could mask future stains and dressed for work in the dressing room. The thought of saving $20 and strolling straight out to the car was exhilarating, but I’m not thirteen. I handed the cashier the ripped tag.

She held it like it was a used tissue, cocked her head and asked, “Did you have pants on when you came here?”

I don’t consider leggings pants. I said no.