I came home and began scrubbing the kitchen floor on my hands and knees. That obsessive/compulsive thing, I guess. It was the perfect end to my workday: tactile, humbling, and somehow authentic. Like touching the arm of your closest friend when he’s telling you how bad things really are.
I took extreme delight in the fact that I was able to marry an old bottle of Windex with a new one without spilling a drop.
Sounds like I’ve got a Mammy Complex. What, exactly does that imply?
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