someone to come home to

i'm on my hands and knees, the floor cold against my flesh, sweat sticking my shirt to my spine and suffering from what i internally refert to as "slime gloves" when i force myself to pause and actually, truthfuly, assess the situation:

it's eleven a.m. on a wednesday in late november, and i- a diploma-welding university gradute- am wearing old ratty shorts and an even rattier sweater, and am scrubbing away at the macktack under my kitchen sink.

i am forced to admit that while this may not be the exact utilisation of of my degree envisaged upon my embarking to uni, it was quite satisfying in its own way.

i mean, no more scary caked on goop under the sink. who doesn't love that?