Maybe Tomorrow
My hair needs cut, and it's not going to do it by itself.
I'm raggedy, and wild, untamed, unkempt, a little dirty.
I'm in pajama pants, have not brushed my teeth, and my breath is atrocious.
My art studio needs cleaned, I have lost four hammers in there; I used a knife this morning.
I'm a dreary, sorry, unapologetic mess of a woman.
This is my sloth-mode; it happens more and more lately.
There is only one cure; I have to make one move in the right direction.
Pick up a box of junk, put away a towel, brush my teeth, just one thing.
I know this, and yet here I sit, wishing for a cleaning fairy, an elf that likes to brush teeth.
I look around and sigh.
No one is coming.
Who is going to see this mess?
No one cares what my hair looks like.
Maybe tomorrow...
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