This one is based off of my real opinion. I haven’t written a good one about myself in a while, and I feel that my arrogance requires me to write one. What is your favorite chore, non-existent reader?

18. Cleaning: Hey, even writers and creative artists have to do housework sometimes. Write about doing laundry, dishes, and other cleaning activities.

I have always loved washing the dishes. THere is something so hypnotic and calming about the whole process. You get into a rhythm, you hum a little tune to yourself as the warm water brushes over your hands. You hear the sweet swishing sound of a brush leaving a sudsy trail on a plate, washing away the dirt. You cleanse the plate, and it cleanses you.

I like to wash the dirt rinse into the drain. I like the way it swirls momentarily, regretfully taking leave of its temporary home, leaving a place of light and warmth and sweet cacophony in return for the dark and damp pipes that run under my home. I often wonder where these pipes lead, where the final resting place of the remains of my food will find themselves, but that does not effect me enough to have ever found an answer.

We have green brushes at my house. The bristles are thin and pale, but you can always tell when your work is done by looking at them. They turn brown with the dirt, so the end of the job always involves washing the scrubbers. I’ve always found it a little ironic, and I chuckle to myself as I wash them with the same soap they washed the dirty plates with.

I hate washing pots and pans. Their expanse is so vast! Compare a pot, for a moment, to the humble plate. The plate is white with a thin blue band around the rim. They are not too big, and they only take a moment to clean. There are always enough to have a little rhythm. Rinse, scrub, rinse, next. Rinse, scrub, rinse, next. Rinse, scrub, rinse, next. There are never enough pots for this. Even if they were, their sizes and shapes are all so different that you are forced to abandon any semblance of rythm. Compared to the plates, they are like a week long trek across the antarctic. I much prefer the peaceful evening stroll of the plate.

When the task is done, I somehow always end up soaked. Perhaps it is the gentle spray from the faucet hitting the plates, or perhaps I am simply clumsy and end up pouring water all over myself without realizing until I pull away from the cool countertop. The water is always slightly warm, and it sticks to my belly. I always feel accomplished, and I take a moment to admire my work. I had destroyed the evil beast that once took the form of endless plates stacked in millions of piles, all strewn about the kitchen. I have come out victorious. My shirt may be wet, but it is a small price to pay for winning yet another battle with the disarray trying to invade my house.


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