I have a confession. I don’t dust. Not really. Not ever. Sometimes it happens. Accidentally.
Taking a novel off the bookshelf. Rearranging furniture. Reaching for the old blue teapot on top of the refrigerator.
You always said cleanliness is next to godliness. The path to righteousness is paved with damp cloths.
Dust ye: for the kingdom of heaven shines like a fresh coat of furniture polish.
I want to dust. I do. Just not as much as I want to read Ulysses. Or have a root canal.
And I’m tired of pretending. You deserve to know. So I’m just gonna say it and hope you’ll forgive me.
I’m a dirty girl.