In general, chores stink. They are monotonous, boring, difficult, and never seem to result in a big enough pay-off. I don't know if it is possible to pick the all-time worst chore, but, by far, the least enjoyable for me is ironing the boyfriend's button down shirts. In an effort to save myself, I have researched various methods of obtaining the perfect ironing method. They are not good enough. No matter what I do, I invariably iron in wrinkles that weren't there in the first place. With the amount of time and care I put into the procedure, this shouldn't be possible. They should be perfect.
And I, of course, cannot be serene, accepting the world's continual pull towards disorder and imperfection. I don't want a soothing perspective, I just want to control some fabric and several buttons. So, after an undisclosed amount of time (I don't want to admit how much wasted time these stupid shirts eke from my life), I am left with six shirts that look somewhat better than they started, and a desire for blood. This sort of rage seems like it would be best dissipated through general mayhem, maiming, and perhaps some looting. But, since I have still got some of my wits about me, I am sitting on the couch with my feet on the coffee table waiting for the anger to go.
Please, please go.
No comments:
Post a Comment