In relationships, smalls things take on a whole new meaning...

Laundry — or welcome to the danger zone

How fucked up do you actually feel getting worked up over some stupid receipt — to even notice it? Cause you should feel fucked up. It IS fucked up. It’s a fucking loss of dignity.

You’re just doing the laundry, you know. You don’t care. You never really minded doing the laundry. Maybe you even half like it sometimes. But it’s pretty domestic; you can’t argue with that.

Anyhow, You’re not really thinking about it. You’re just doing the laundry, after all. But then, well... the pockets have to be emptied. That’s just part of it; no big deal.

The problem comes once you stick your hand in a pocket and hit something... something… it doesn’t matter what. Suddenly, you’ve hit gold, fool’s gold, a hidden treasure, a secret... but not your secret. And no matter what your hand pulls out, you weren’t meant to see it.

Sometimes, your hand automatically recognizes and interprets what it meets… and the fear of the unknown diminishes. Sometimes… not, and then you have to address a whole new slew of dilemmas.

What gets left behind? What kind of treasure is it that I am finding? What secret am I exposing? Do I want to? Was this left behind for me? Am I supposed to find it? Or is it a slip, something that was supposed to remain a secret? Or is it a Freudian slip? What does it mean, this collection of receipts and business cards, stray dollar bills, coins, matches? Everything takes on significance, significance it wasn’t meant to have. Or was it?

Where are the matches from? Do you look? Do you care? You try not to. But it’s only natural to “see.” Of course, you’re looking… Of course you are. And no matter how much you manage to fool yourself… you still know. You’re not stupid. You looked, man. And you’re suddenly so completely aware of your own weakness, your fucking patheticness… or so it feels. But justified, nonetheless. Justified to question — which is why you ask — which is the most fucked up part of all.

You have no idea.

If someone else were writing this monologue they might stop me now and have me say that last night I dreamt my love was fucking Nancy Drew. That’s how they would expose my insecurities. I never dream about him fucking Nancy Drew… only some cheap fucking redhead whore. Yeah, she’s always a damned redhead… which only adds to my overwhelming feeling of living a cliché.