Owning a glass top dining table requires twice as much cleaning as I’d like to assume.
Or it looks just as dirty!
An endless cycle of cleaning the top and the bottom and by the time the bottom is cleaned some new fur or dust particle or God forbid I’ve leaned my greasy little hand on it to stabilize myself and get a good angle for the cleaning of the underside and this is maybe a bit what it feels like working in a field where you’re trying to process your own grief but you’re just here guiding others through theirs and there’s no real way to actually process any of it and I tell myself constantly “damn they’re really going through worse than I am” and I’m here being paid at least I could drag myself in at least I’m getting up on my lunch break and getting a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser and scrubbing my dining table down every few weeks when it gets too sticky from all the juices of mental illness I’ve been leaking on it.
(I almost quit my job today.)
pro-whimsy agenda 