This afternoon, my husband asked me if I wouldn’t mind changing the sheets on the bed, if I had time, that is. Seems that they’re gritty from him eating cheddar fries in the bed, the dog dragging dirt in the bed and sand from Chloe. So sleeping on that bed is like sleeping on sandpaper.

But I was in a bitch mood today, so when he asked me that, I replied, “Oh, I don’t think I’ll have time to make the bed today. I have to go out and sell myself on the streets to get that money for my mom. Oh, and I’m already behind a day. Sorry.”

He just stared at me for a second and then walked away. The bed is still unmade.