This has certainly been a weekend of novelty: blackberry soda, Santee Alley, gunmetal pearl necklaces, Run Lola Run and the like. Not "The Like," as in the band—but you knew that, right?
Cleaning my place is SO horrifically exhausting, and I'm not even close to finishing yet. How can one small apartment suddenly be so Sisyphean in terms of restoring order? Every time I clean something, I discover something else that needs to be sorted out. Grr argh. I need a housemaid. And a butler. And a chef. And a masseur. And an aromatherapist. And a fitness coach. And a secretary. And a box of Swiffer WetJet pads.
Honestly, some of us will never be satisfied....
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