I’m looking at the creases on this dress I ironed and this is the conversation I’m having with myself.

Me: so what was the whole point of ironing it in the first place?

Me: to make it less rumpled and mission accomplished.

Me: you know you could have done it better?

Me: maybe but I didn’t. Deal with it.

Me: oh God. So you’re going to go to church in a dress with one hundred gators?

Me: God isn’t concerned about my dress.

Me: well, I am.

Me: that’s your personal problem.

Me: ugh. I don’t know why I bother with you.

Me: me neither.

Me: (murmurs)

Me: say it aloud okay. So I can hear it and give you a befitting response (looks at the dress and mumbles) Wait. Did someone uniron this dress?

Me: I’m starting to think you ironed it by laying it on the floor and dancing on it.

Me: what?

Me: it was better unironed, you bloody buffoon.

Me: whatever. I’m still going to wear it like that.

Me: of course. Zero shame.

Me: me and you both.

Me: I’m not a part of… (stops midsentence)

Me: together forever babyy. (Laugs like a goat.)