The standoff between me and the clean laundry that I am told needs to be folded and not just chucked into each determined owners room has now reached day 3. I'm pretty sure the clothes are winning as it seems they have a quality of kriptonite to Superman effect on me.
Every time I attempt to go near them I am overwhelmed with frustration and the strange urge to drink my weight in alcohol.
I've contemplated burning everything and starting over, but Jon has brought up the very obvious financial liability that this possesses. God, I really hate when he is all logical.
I'm wondering what ever gave me the idea that being at home and not at a full time job was such a brilliant idea for how I should spend my time. Then I am reminded of the debilitating illness that brought me to this place. And for once I'm not talking about the depression.
I can hear the laundry taunting me from the couch and I am forced to remind it that A) I am NOT on facebook and B) I am more than capable of folding it all but I am choosing not to.
This internal exchange is room for pause and makes me think that being cooped up all day with inanimate objects may not be the best thing for someone of my mental capacity. This realization makes me tired and therefore I announce that I am going back to bed.
There is an audible groan from the laundry piles, which I realize is actually Penny rustling about underneath the stacks of shorts, t-shirts, towels and socks. Just when I worry that I will have to launch a search and rescue team for her safe return from the depths of clothes mountain she wriggles free albeit inside the pant leg of one of Jon's pairs of boxers and looks longingly at me.
I am pretty sure she is telling me to fold the laundry so she and the other dogs can reclaim the couch as a jungle gym. Or maybe she is asking me to rescue her from the boxers.
Great....now I am being mentally scolded by piles of clothes and 3 dogs. My day is going down hill fast.
~JP
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