I Can't, Vol. 28

NO. NO. NO. NO. I can't...

when I spend 5+ hours on a Sunday, deep cleaning the ever loving shit out of my home. And I can't because, once it's done and perfect, I literally don't want to touch anything. It becomes a museum to me, in which I have to keep my hands by my sides at all times. I don't want to mess up the vacuum marks, I don't want to tussle the freshly washed bed sheets, I don't want to cook in the clean kitchen, sit on the plumped up couch, or even make eye contact with my bathroom sink or shower. I really think one of the best feelings in the entire world is knowing you're going home to a just-cleaned house. You could've had the worst day in a long time, but knowing what lay beyond your front door makes it bearable. I guess I'll just sleep underneath the kitchen table as to not muck up my hard work. That's the only viable solution.

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I can't...

decide what's worse: keeping up an Instagram post that has garnered less than 11 likes, or shamelessly deleting it, therefore silently but publicly admitting its failure. Both give me anxiety.

I can't...

with House of Cards, season three. Never have I ever yelled "OH MY GOD?" and gasped audibly this much at a television show. Not even with Breaking Bad, TBH. Both Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright (aka Princess Buttercup) are like a fine wine — better and better with age (not like I'd know. I buy $6 bottles at Trader Joe's and think I'm spoiling myself).

I can't...

also, with Doug Stamper in the finale. No spoilers here, but for those of you who have already gotten through the entire season like me, you know what I'm talking about. When no but then yes and it's like CUT TO YA KNOW and you're like oh so, he did? Ok cool. I CAN'T.

I can't...

get behind the whole "shampoo isn't necessary" movement. Like, FUCK. THAT. And how they say especially with curly hair? Well, I especially need shampoo because I've tried ditching it, and my hair looks especially out-of-control-disgusting without it. Besides, I only wash my hair like three times a week anyway. Maybe four. The point is, no shower feels as good or as complete without those few moments of impossibly delicious suds overtaking your scalp. 

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I can't...

with my friends who don't own or have never heard of drying racks??? What is this, 100 B.C.? I hang pretty much every piece of clothing I wash because I've ruined way too many things trusting drying directions, so drying racks are my jam. I've been using the same two since college, and don't understand how someone wouldn't use them? Mine have seen some shit (like bras and jeans), but are still super trusty. Here are some options if you, too, are in need of letting drying racks into your life and laundry room.

I can't...

if you screw up a nail RIGHT AFTER you did them/got them done. A small chip, a weird imprint, a smudge — whatever it is, it makes you want to lash out. Like, scream bloody murder, storm into a random restaurant and start flipping random tables over, and psychotically start scratching all other polished nails off while yelling "NO, IT'S FINE! YA KNOW WHAT? LET'S JUST GO AHEAD AND FUCK THEM ALL UP, YEAH? WHO NEEDS POLISH ANYWAY." Sorry, but it's that infuriating. You either took the time out of your day to sit patiently while a nail tech (kinda roughly) manicured you, or you sat at home doing it yourself and that type of patience should not  be repaid with immediate chips. Can't.

I can't...

with how depressingly accurate this is:

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I can't...

with the type of work days where you're literally waiting to leave. They don't happen often (if they do, you probably need to reevaluate your job all together), but when they do they are the worst. Watching the clock and going over what you're going to do that night 33,000 times in your head gets old really fast, but you can't help it because you want to leave that badly. It's pure torture, TBH.

I can't...

that, this very morning, I was thinking to myself "UGH. I hate the whole 'how was your weekend?' vapid conversation that happens every Monday at work. Does anyone really care about your weekend besides you and those involved and your Instagram followers (at least in your mind, anyway)? I refuse to ask or answer that today. I'm taking a stand against it." Then, I walked into work, sat down at my desk, turned to my work buddy and gaily chirped, "How was your weekend?!??!" So, clearly, I'm the problem.

I can't...

that it's March. My birthday is in less than a month. No. 

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xox,

emma

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