She slopped the mop onto the floor, purposefully spreading the grimy water around and close to Jacob’s feet. “Watch it!”
“Oh, SO SORRY,” she trilled sarcastically.
I have to mop all this up first. Some lady got into a fit of hysterics and spilled her Slurpee or whatever this slushiness is all over the floor of the store. I’m supposed to meet the girl of my dreams tonight for a movie, but first I have to mop this mess up.
To meditate upon a clear floor can be reflective, put the caution signs up, then observe your thoughts and just let the mop flow because it goes around.
Year over the halls that gather dirt every day, the smell of mold permeates from the blackened, worn threads of thick yarn, until everything it touches becomes putrid, too. The wax. The bleach. The overdue replacement. But the smell of decaying fabric will not be erased, it will not be dampened; thriving in the moist, forgotten places. Cleaning up late-night spills and morning coffee. It all turns black, it all rots, and the day they tear this building down, the very dirt on which it stood will smell of the self-righteous spite of a janitor refusing to dump dirty water until everyone else smelled it, too.
Howdy! Thiѕ is kind of off topic but I need some guidance from an eѕtablіshed bⅼog.
Iѕ it tough to set up your own bloց? I’m not very techincal but I
can figurе things out ⲣｒetty quick. I’m thinking about creating my own but I’m not sure where to
begin. Do you have any points or suggestions? Appreciate it
mop the floor, and when you’re done don’t forget to wring out the mop before you put it in the closet. Then the wax comes out and we get to the REALLY messy part of the job.
Do you think that the great world will bow down
To the disgrace you’ve thrown upon it
Do you think that the stars will fall upon
The first to embrace them
If ever so slightly you think
That the earth moves as you do
Surely some sense would come
Of knowing
That no one soul
May move this world
Scrub the windows, mop the floor, do the dishes, fix the door. Work until your arms are sore and your fingers don’t work no more. Drink a beer and catch some z’s. Don’t forget to dust, now, please. All these chores are just a breeze – and your responsibilities!
The water in the bucket was dirty, but she hadn’t noticed. I closed the door as quietly as I could behind me. Swish, swish. She dragged the dirty water across the floor. I took a step towards her. “Brooke?” There wasn’t any sign she’d heard me. Swish, swish. She lifted the mop into the bucket and stepped on the side to squeeze the water out. The water was the same flat, dusty grey as her eyes.
Well…it’s a mop. I guess it’s something you clean the floor with and it has a hard firm handle and a sponge like thing at the bottom so it can soak up the water and let it go when it hits the ground.
I remember the mop my Mom had–it was kind of floppy. Sometimes, I helped her clean the house and I would dance around the room with the mop. You could take it off the long handle to wash.
I believe it was an old-fashioned mop.
his face was the very picture of dismay.
“stop moping,” she demanded.
“but that’s what you asked me to do?” replied her small boy.
She looked at him in confusion, “clean the floor- mop it!”
“Oh,” he exclaimed, as he began to do his work.
when she left the room, he giggled and whispered
A mop of blonde hair; such an ugly comparison. Mops are always dripping wet, filthy. She scowled at her classmate, reading from his classwork. He hadn’t intended to insult her, but that hardly mattered. She twisted a lock around her finger.
She slopped the mop onto the floor, purposefully spreading the grimy water around and close to Jacob’s feet. “Watch it!”
“Oh, SO SORRY,” she trilled sarcastically.
I have to mop all this up first. Some lady got into a fit of hysterics and spilled her Slurpee or whatever this slushiness is all over the floor of the store. I’m supposed to meet the girl of my dreams tonight for a movie, but first I have to mop this mess up.
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To meditate upon a clear floor can be reflective, put the caution signs up, then observe your thoughts and just let the mop flow because it goes around.
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Year over the halls that gather dirt every day, the smell of mold permeates from the blackened, worn threads of thick yarn, until everything it touches becomes putrid, too. The wax. The bleach. The overdue replacement. But the smell of decaying fabric will not be erased, it will not be dampened; thriving in the moist, forgotten places. Cleaning up late-night spills and morning coffee. It all turns black, it all rots, and the day they tear this building down, the very dirt on which it stood will smell of the self-righteous spite of a janitor refusing to dump dirty water until everyone else smelled it, too.
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Howdy! Thiѕ is kind of off topic but I need some guidance from an eѕtablіshed bⅼog.
Iѕ it tough to set up your own bloց? I’m not very techincal but I
can figurе things out ⲣｒetty quick. I’m thinking about creating my own but I’m not sure where to
begin. Do you have any points or suggestions? Appreciate it
I pick up the mop and chuck it into the cupboard, letting it clatter to the floor. I turn around, looking at the freshly cleaned floor.
“I’m back!” a voice calls, said person walks in and tumbles onto the wet floor.
mop the floor, and when you’re done don’t forget to wring out the mop before you put it in the closet. Then the wax comes out and we get to the REALLY messy part of the job.
Do you think that the great world will bow down
To the disgrace you’ve thrown upon it
Do you think that the stars will fall upon
The first to embrace them
If ever so slightly you think
That the earth moves as you do
Surely some sense would come
Of knowing
That no one soul
May move this world
That not one person
Shall commit
Scrub the windows, mop the floor, do the dishes, fix the door. Work until your arms are sore and your fingers don’t work no more. Drink a beer and catch some z’s. Don’t forget to dust, now, please. All these chores are just a breeze – and your responsibilities!
The water in the bucket was dirty, but she hadn’t noticed. I closed the door as quietly as I could behind me. Swish, swish. She dragged the dirty water across the floor. I took a step towards her. “Brooke?” There wasn’t any sign she’d heard me. Swish, swish. She lifted the mop into the bucket and stepped on the side to squeeze the water out. The water was the same flat, dusty grey as her eyes.
Well…it’s a mop. I guess it’s something you clean the floor with and it has a hard firm handle and a sponge like thing at the bottom so it can soak up the water and let it go when it hits the ground.
I remember the mop my Mom had–it was kind of floppy. Sometimes, I helped her clean the house and I would dance around the room with the mop. You could take it off the long handle to wash.
I believe it was an old-fashioned mop.
oi mopt uhp thee flor. iht wus ay dizaster. iht wuz soh dissgussteeng
his face was the very picture of dismay.
“stop moping,” she demanded.
“but that’s what you asked me to do?” replied her small boy.
She looked at him in confusion, “clean the floor- mop it!”
“Oh,” he exclaimed, as he began to do his work.
when she left the room, he giggled and whispered
she forgot a p.
A mop of blonde hair; such an ugly comparison. Mops are always dripping wet, filthy. She scowled at her classmate, reading from his classwork. He hadn’t intended to insult her, but that hardly mattered. She twisted a lock around her finger.
I just moped with my brand-new mop.