So, you’ve decided to embark on the epic, life-altering quest of washing the dishes. Congratulations. Truly. Few are brave enough to tackle such a Herculean task. The legends speak of warriors who have survived it, emerging slightly damper and considerably more resentful. Now it’s your turn, noble Dish Knight.
Step 1: Denial
First, walk past the sink 17 times. Glance at it. Scoff. Mutter something about how you “just did them yesterday” (you didn’t). Convince yourself that maybe—just maybe—they’ll wash themselves if you stare hard enough. They won’t, but optimism is cute.
Step 2: Negotiation
Stare at your roommate/significant other/cat and try to guilt them into doing it. Remind them of that one time you held the door open or breathed in their general direction. If you’re alone, argue with yourself out loud. This is healthy.
Step 3: Preparation (aka Procrastination)
Roll up your sleeves. Realize you’re wearing a tank top. Put on a dramatic soundtrack. Light a candle for ambiance (and to mask the scent of aged spaghetti sauce). Stretch. Hydrate. Make a to-do list so you can cross off “Make a to-do list.”
Step 4: The Encounter
Approach the sink like it’s a cursed swamp. You may need a shovel to unearth the bottom layer. Bonus points for anything fossilized. Wonder aloud what that crusted-over fork was doing in the peanut butter jar. Who knows? Ancient mysteries abound.
Step 5: The Soap Ritual
Squirt dish soap like you’re summoning a demon. Use way too much. Make it bubbly enough to host a children’s birthday party. Now scrub like your reputation depends on it—because nothing screams “put-together adult” like clean forks.
Step 6: Existential Crisis
As you wash the eighth plate, question every life choice that led you here. Why did you choose a dish-heavy meal? Who made soup in a pot this big? How many spoons does one person need in 24 hours? Is this all there is?
Step 7: Sudsy Enlightenment
Eventually, something shifts. You’re in the zone. You’re speed-washing like a caffeinated dishwasher ninja. The bubbles are your enemies, your allies, your truth. You forget time. You transcend time. You become one with the sponge.
Step 8: The Rinse of Redemption
Blast those dishes like they owe you money. Stack them on the drying rack with the delicate grace of a renaissance sculptor. Marvel at your own strength. You, who once feared the sink, now reign supreme over porcelain and plastic alike.
Step 9: The Celebration
Towel off your hands like a surgeon post-op. Lean on the counter. Gaze at your gleaming battlefield of victory. Breathe in the lemony scent of conquest. Text a friend: “I did the dishes.” Wait for applause. It won’t come. But you know. You know.
Step 10: Repeat Tomorrow
Because life is cruel, and someone just used another spoon.
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