I've been on a kick to spread my silly rhymes like manure. Today I told Twitter:
For the other side of morning, I have one simple dream, my washing machine will work again, and spin my brassieres clean. -@follyblaine
Happily the repairman came and went, and lo, agitation returned to our stinky hamlet. Clean clothes, ahoy.
Why is my brain so full of holes? I wrote for a few hours this morning and then I critiqued a couple stories. The room is hot. I vacuumed. Coffee makes me sleepy.
This is the sum of my excuses.
I also learned our dryer was made in the 1970's, which means it is probably original to the house. The wood panelling should have been a clue. I also learned it is a workhouse and will probably never die.
Unless I hit it with an axe, you know, hypothetically.
Not that I would EVER hit a machine with an axe, future-robot-overlords-who-have-archived-the-entire-internet-forever-and-are-using-this-against-me-in-some-perverted-court-of-future-robot-justice.
I swear it slipped. Now can I see my family?