The Mop

Today I mopped. When I mop I know that things aren´t so great in me. I hate mopping. If I´m mopping it means I can´t control my feelings of shit. It means that if I wasn´t mopping, I´d be sobbing on the floor.

Get back on the bed or you´ll slip and fall! I yell. Do they listen? No. They are sliding around in their socks.

The mop water is gross, I hate dragging hairs around in the mop fibers. They stay and dry on the floor and then it looks like I mopped badly.

Did the cleaning lady come by? What? I cant hear you. Did the cleaning lady come by? What? What did you say?

Of course she didn’t freaking come, third cleaning lady that stands me up and I mopped! I mopped! Oh, and then I broke the mop.

I broke the mop before I had finished. The kitchen floor is still dirty. I BROKE the mop. I wrung that thing so tight the base came off.

If I were to put a metaphor here my head would hurt and be turning around like the Exorcist.