Chickens unfucked. Er…chickens lovingly cared for by earnest postmodern farmer grrl?
My actual chicken’s actual bitchface. That there behind her is an empty jar of mealworms. OH SNAP.
I emptied the dishwasher and put more dishes in. It is eternal, neverending, Xeno’s Dishadox: you can never truly arrive at 100% clean dishes, only approach it in increasingly small increments.
But I don’t want to do anything else. IT’S SO GREY OUTSIDE YOU GUYS. GREY LIKE MY SOUL.
I don’t want to put up towel racks or write or eat or brush the cat. I WANT TO WOE.
I was doing so well yesterday. That means I don’t have to do shit today, right? Bluuuuuuh. SO MUCH MUD OUTSIDE. SO MUCH COLD.
Four hours before I have to leave. Get up, Trinity. Go to your office.
Don’t wanna. I’m going. Don’t wanna. I’m going.