There’s dirt in these folds. Wiping only makes it worse.
Dab… don’t wipe. Dab… don’t wipe.
Powder and cream: rub it in rub it in.
Stepped on my glasses.
Where are all the jobs? The sign on the window says apply within- but the store is empty… the only sound is my shoes on the crusty floor and my rasping breath.
It’s my career trajectory- lunched mid-range- a missile containing my biological clock set to detonate on impact. Target out of range from my place in this breadbox. I am stale. I am fresh. It’s a matter of perspective.
I’ll call the doctor to get my status.