Is Steam Washer Worth It

Exactly

is like deciding not to run to catch the subway. And wait one hour after.

It's like finding the idea. The obvious idea. The perfect idea. And do not write it. No, because it is so good, so obvious and so perfect that it is not worth the note. But you're dumb and that you also forgot to note, then obviously you forget the idea.

It's like finally having a new phone. After having carried around a battered old thing that your friends have dubbed "washing machine" because of its substantial size. And leave the same evening. And make stupid videos that will be so funny to watch the next day. Already you remember. You're saying it'll be fun to watch the videos tomorrow. You think about it again elsewhere when you realize you've left your laptop sitting on a beautiful wooden bar, having a glass after glass explained to Boris, Bartender's condition, as champagne is really good spice in a cloud of vodka.

It's like having written 30 pages. 30 pages of romance. In 4 months of work to find the right words. Because you're lazy and only 30 pages for you is a lot. Have written 30 pages of the novel then, and read them all by saying that it will not so bad in the end. It's not that no one at all, not too ashamed to see. See presentable. Yeah, sent to the same friends. Suddenly, at the close window, you meet a strange thing to your computer that asks itself a strange thing. It finally as usual, you really do not read and you press, just as usual, on "Do not Save". And you do not know why, since you have not read the issue, nor pay attention to recent steps taken by your computer, since he is old, runs on its own will, but the result is adamantly there under your eyes that dare not cry, you just erase everything. This is when your engineer friend who agreed to drop his cell phone at 2 am one night Week qualifies your technical malversation "Ah, there ...."

It's like being mounted on heels, makeup, hair clean and shiny, having managed the feat of putting on a pair of pantyhose without the spin, with the certainty to arrive right on time (previously with quarter of an hour late) for a head to head with a male person whom you expect it offers an appointment since Jane Birkin has an English accent. And, all excited, you close the door. With your keys inside. Asked where you have asked. Your sofa. Right next to your left near the double ashtray. Where git yet, on the console, your handbag in which you had surreptitiously slipped the paper with the address bar and phone number of your appointment carefully printed in a tiny chip that any little thing serves as your laptop.

My life is made of a series is like. That's