My day started terribly.

I’m a failure at adulthood, and I don’t know how often any of ya’ll wash your bras, but me?  They live in a pile on the floor for about a week and I gentle-wash and then air dry them.  But anyways, there’s a pile for “worn, but wearable” clothes on my bathroom floor next to my hamper of “definitely dirty so probably don’t wear this, but I bet you’ll try anyways you dirtbag, at least don’t wear the shirt with the taco stain on it” clothes.

This morning, I did my bathroom routines of cleansing and satanic sacrificial rituals to the gods of “make wrinkles and grey hairs stop,” grabbed a bra and a pair of jeans from off the floor and headed into the bedroom to finish getting ready.

I went to put on my grey bra and saw a little piece of lint on the inside.  No big deal, I thought, that is what happens when your bathroom floor is your wardrobe.  That’s just life on the streets, yo.  As i went to pick the lint off, THE LINT WALKED AWAY FROM MY GRASP, BECAUSE IT WAS A SPIDER.

 

 

 

 

 

A SPIDER WAS IN MY BRA.

A SPIDER WAS IN MY BRA.

A SPIDER WAS IN MY BRA.

A SPIDER WAS IN MY BRA.

A SPIDER WAS IN MY BRA.

A SPIDER WAS IN MY BRA.

A SPIDER WAS IN MY BRA.

 

All aboard the nope train to FuckThatVille.

 

 

 

 

Then I threw my bra on the floor and screamed and lit the whole house on fire.