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...