I hate laundry maybe even more than I hate meatloaf. This is to say, quite a goddamned lot.
But I've reached That Point. You know the one? Where your room is suddenly a hilly place, with mounds of clothes ranging from 'burn me now, I carry pestilence' to 'hey! look! it can stand on it's own!' and you find yourself squinting at a pair of ill-fitting jeans with a mustard stain on the knee, and a shirt that's two sizes too small and missing a button, and wondering if you wear a tank top underneath it, and ratty sneakers with the jeans, maybe you'll look punk instead of just unkempt.
In my mind, I've swept my room, vacuumed my carpet, cleaned my surfaces, and changed the light bulbs all over. In reality, I've sort of -- waved my hands in the general direction of all of these things and said "Room, heal thyself" and "Clothing, launder thyself."
Shockingly? This is not working.
The whole post is here and well worth a read :)