I’m in grubby clothes, one hand on the back of the shower wall to support me leaning over the tub to scrub the wall with my other hand. As who knows what kind or what age of tub grime dirties the baking soda paste I’m using, I plan my reward for scouring the tub and shower at our new apartment at 10:30 at night.
A few bites of the emergency brownie I keep in the freezer? No–that’s how I got up the will to start this project so late.
A glass of wine? It’s way too late and I’m way too tired.
I know. I’ll go to Target Sunday and buy new bras.
Then it hits me: I might be deeply uninteresting.