There’s a mystery that lives in my dressing room.
I say dressing room – but that’s actually just a fancy word for the spare bedroom that is home to my two huge wardrobes and the bed/couch-creation that contains all of the laundry-I-didn’t-yet-fold.
Foldin’ laundy is the fucking worst of the entire world of chores imho. There’s nothing I hate more – which means that there’s often a pile of two or three loads of laundry chilling there, anxiously awaiting to be folded (which pretty much never happens). It only dissappears when people stay over and said bed-couch is needed for sleeping purposes. The more guests I have – the cleaner my house becomes. Magic!
However, the case of the unfolded laundry is NOT the mystery that lives in my dressing room.
Nope. This mystery is far more mysterious. Obviously. Or it wouldn’t be called a mystery.
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