Friday, November 8, 2013


I was cleaning throw up stains from the bathroom floor and I thought of you. The kids are sick. I wondered if you have kids, if you get sick, if you're healthy most of the time, if you drink too much coffee, if you feel too much or too little, if music does things to you, if you go to the laundromat or if you have your own machines, if the laundromat smells better than your house and that's why you go there because you really do have a washer and dryer you just prefer to go other places that smell like a Tide-All-Gain cocktail, and how you're able to make all of those elements of your life work if you 1) have kids, 2) those kids are sick, and 3) if you have to make repeated trips to the laundromat to clean all of the stuff.

And I wonder if maybe that's why you read my blog, my reader, my vigilante dear who scrubs the bathroom floor, whose laundromat smells better than your house. I'm always blogging about me, me, me. But what about YOU. What about you? Try and appreciate the fact that I'm thinking about you, and not worry too much about how I started thinking of you while I cleaned vomit. The two are, like, barely related.

I'm feeling a bit off today from lack of sleep, family sickness, and caffeine withdrawal. Did you know that the word "withdrawal" has "awal" at the end of it? Isn't the extra "a" weird, giving it more of a warbley sound than you originally suspected? 

Is this something else that I didn't know about you, my reader, my blog-checker who sometimes skips the funny stuff for the serious stuff, and sometimes skips my blog completely to look at the headlines on The Onion? What are you like, I sometimes wonder as I write to you in this place that I've created that's like one long payphone call, the kind that you make when you see a phone on the side of the road and you decide to call a friend. You would have used your cell phone but you think you've left it at home, and really it's fallen under the seat and you won't know that for a couple of days. The payphone is outside the laundromat where we, you and I, go to make things clean, to start fresh, to look over at each other and wonder. "Does he have kids?" "Does she feel too much or too little?" It's strange to talk into a payphone with no idea who's on the other end, but stranger still maybe for you to pick up the phone and listen to someone you don't know. The call comes from a number you don't recognize and ends with a "click" for a goodbye.

I have a washer and dryer. But the laundromat smells better than my house.


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