I’ve come to the conclusion that I hate everybody. And I’m okay with that.

As I have matured over the years like a well-ripened cheese I have come to the conclusion that I hate everybody.

Well maybe not absolutely everybody. But mostly everybody.

And maybe hate is a strong word. How about resent?

Okay – I strongly resent 99.9% of the population.

As someone who spent her formative years working in retail / admin /corporate hospitality – and is now an executive PA you’d think (after my many years of exposure to various aspects of mankind) I would have a great appreciation for the human experience. That I would be anthropological in my outlook on life. But in truth I spend 100% of my day inwardly rolling my eyes during interactions with other people.

Thinking about it, I guess I’m what you might call an “equal opportunity hater.” I don’t care about race, age, religion or sexual preference – I will dislike you regardless of all that.

Nobody believes me when I say I’m not a “people” person. Especially Mr Maybe, who always says I’m the “kindest” person he knows.

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This depresses me, because quite frankly I’d rather be the sexiest person he knows. I mean, I doubt there has been a man alive who’s whispered provocatively in his girlfriends ear: “Oooh baby, you’re so KIND it makes me horny…”

Meh. I guess I’ll take it.

I can’t help thinking he’ll be in for a shock when I experience my impending psychotic break and eventually explode in a shower of tourettes-like swearing followed by running naked through the town centre. But there we go, that’s relationships for you. If you can’t have at least ONE psychotic break without being judged then you need to make good your exit my friend.

I understand this misconception though. After years of servitude I have developed this hospitality / client-facing façade as a coping mechanism. Only, I can’t shut it off. It’s like PTSD. The upside to this is I can cope with any situation without betraying how I actually feel at that moment in time. However, I think this façade has now become engrained in my personality in general. Maybe it doesn’t help that I’m English and middle class? Being repressed is probably in my DNA or something.

No matter how cheerfully I start my day with scented bubble baths or buddhist chanting the torture of public transport is enough to leave me seething as I reach either end of my commute. Most people seem to have NO spatial awareness. They will press against you, cut across you, push in front of you, blindly amble into you, stop right in front of you… They would probably even take a dump on you if they could get away with it.

I have OCD (actual OCD, not a mild dislike for things being out-of-order) – meaning I don’t like being  repeatedly tapped / touched in general unless I have given an engraved invitation. With this in mind you can imagine how much I hate it when someone gets on the tube and their suitcase, handbag or shopping is tapping against me for the whole journey. Even if I scrunch up foetuslike to stop this from happening, the moron with the tappy bag happily expands to fill the microscopic bit of space between us and I still get their crap bumping and jabbing me over and over all the way to work.

When I’m stressed and my OCD gets really bad, I need to tap the floor or the nearest surface to hand the same number of times someone touches me. If I don’t do this compulsive counter-tap I get the gut feeling that something very bad will happen and it will be all my fault. Like an apocalypse. Or Kim Kardashian being crowned queen of the universe. And I will hate myself forever.

Next on the list of my biggest pet-commuter-hates (other than those graceless sub-humans who sneeze and cough without covering their mouths) would be jerks who passive-aggressively bustle against me and attempt to shove-in the queue for the escalator. Man, woman of child – I don’t care who you are. You know how to queue. So get to the back of the line before I cut you.

Another cause for resentment are the thoughtless bastards sat down on the tube, avoiding eye contact regardless of an elderly person, pregnant woman or physically impaired individual in need of a seat. I really hope the favour is returned one day when they too have been ravaged by age or the strains of childbearing and have hemorrhoids the size of golf balls dangling out of their bottom.

You see? Under this sweet, well spoken exterior I’m a very grumpy person.

An old friend once told me that if I actually said what I was really thinking nobody would fuck with me. Which is probably true. But I would also be an unemployed social pariah.

Observe…

What I say v’s what I’m actually thinking

Me: Aww your kid is really cute

What I’m actually thinking: It looks like “sloth” from the goonies. But in a nappy. Get it away from me.

 

Guest at my flat: Do you have a toilet?

Me: Yes, just down the hall

What I’m actually thinking: No – we shit in the stairwell

 

Me: Excuse me

What I’m actually thinking: Get the fuck out of my way

 

Me: No, you don’t look fat at all

What I’m actually thinking: …You’re just blocking out the sun

 

*I come into the office and I’m drenched through*

Them: Is it raining?

*long pause*

Me: Yes

What I’m actually thinking: Dear Moron – Never have children, sincerely, the world

 

*someone sneezes*

Me: Bless you

*Three sneezes later*

Me: Bless you?

What I’m actually thinking: GET YOUR SHIT UNDER CONTROL

 

*I’m given more work to do*

Me: “I’ll get right on it!”

What I’m actually thinking: Jesus, what did your last slave die of?!

 

*in an interview*

Them: Why do you want this job?

Me: Because it would be an amazing opportunity and I’m sure I can become an invaluable member of the team

What I’m actually thinking: I have expensive tastes and no sugar daddy. Next question.

 

Me: Just kidding!

What I’m actually thinking: I have never been more serious in my life

 

*I’ve managed to fix someone’s computer*

Them: Wow, how did you do that?

Me: Oh, it was simple, don’t worry about it

What I’m actually thinking: I don’t have the time, crayons or sock-puppets available to explain it to you

 

Them: Could you make a note of that?

Me: Sure

What I’m actually thinking: Let me add that to the brimming list of other things I don’t give a shit about

 

*My boss asks me to do something*

What I’m actually thinking: *I repeat the request in my head in a high-pitched childish voice and inwardly stick my tongue out*

 

Here is another instance that leaves me gurgling with rage. I’m at work, we have a guest come into the office, I sit them down in a meeting room and ask them if they would like any of the following refreshment options:

  1. Tea
  2. Coffee
  3. Water

Which is when they turn to me and ask for a latte, a frappocino, tepid water (not hot… not cold, but inbetween), all of the above, some organic gluten-free biscuits – or some random herbal tea that I have never heard of.

Dear Guest,

I don’t know what people don’t understand about this arrangement. You have THREE choices. Does this look like a chain of Costa’s to you? Do I look like a frickin’ barista? NOW I have to google what the fuck you wanted me to make and try to replicate it using our decrepit little coffee machine that spits out two choices: espresso or Americano.

 

THANKS SO MUCH

P.S I HATE YOU.

Sincerely,

PA with better things to do

Maybe I’m just a grumpy old fart before my time.

I’d love to be in a position in my life where I can throw caution to the wind and say – “Honesty? What the hell, let’s see what happens!” But right now I haven’t got enough money squirreled away for that. Money might not buy you happiness, but it will buy you enough martini’s to do a good impersonation.

I want to be retiree-rich. But not poor retiree obviously. The kind of old-person-wealthy where you can live in a villa with a well-hung houseboy during your golden years and torture your relatives by making them wonder who you have left your stash to … Only to fuck them all over by leaving the lot to a cat sanctuary.

I want to be one of those glamorous old ladies with a tiny herd of poodles pulling her along like a chariot while I swan from brunch to lunch to happy hour in a haze of Guerlain parfam and inebriated cheerfulness.

Now that’s the life.

Socially awkward? Moi?

I went to a fancy schmancy event the other day. Only I didn’t think I was going to a fancy schmancy event. This whole shindig was being thrown by my boss and I had been asked (read: told) to attend. The invite said it was an art event in aid of charity and that the dress code was ‘Smart Casual.’ So you can imagine my confusion when I rolled up in my taxi and saw a red carpet, photographer and people swanning around in ball gowns and tuxedos. I thought I was in the wrong place at first. This is clearly what the snitty woman with the clipboard on the door thought too. Because she barred my path and said on an exhale “Invitation please!” She said it in a self-congratulatory way that translated to “My whole life has been building up to this moment and I’m going to savour every second.” So by way of reply, I flipped my invitation up in front of her eyes between my middle and index finger. Except my middle finger was the only one showing.

Whoopsie.

I later discovered that the mixed dress code was due to there being two separate events in one evening:

  1.  An art exhibition for the “smart-casuals” – and
  2. A more illustrious black-tie dinner /auction for the people who actually mattered.

Regardless of the dress code, as soon as I entered the building it was clear that I did not belong at this event. I eat carbs for one thing, and for the other I didn’t own an island reserved for hunting poor people. Waiters armed with champagne glasses stalked the red carpeted halls in crisp outfits. There were exhibitions from the most elite art, furniture, interior design and jewelry boutiques in London. It was a blur of bleached teeth and Birkins, couture and cougars, diamonds and divas. A string quartet serenaded those assembled while a real-life ballerina twirled delicately next to them. There was even mention of a famous magician making the rounds to do some magic for the crowd – but I didn’t see how any of the Mayfair WAG’s assembled would be able to “pick a card” without the assistance of a male escort to do the picking for them. You know, considering the use of their arms was specifically reserved for credit card swiping only.

The invitation said that there would be champagne and canapes… which is the main reason I showed up to be honest. I had had a really shitty day, so if I couldn’t do jello shots in soho… then this would have to suffice.

drinking

champagne

But an hour and a half and three flutes later – not a vol aux vont was to be seen. I was hungry. My stomach was spasming as if to say “Hey, asshole! When are we going to get some food down here?!” so I asked a passing waiter when we might see a bit of a nibble coming our way. He gave me a pained look, apologised and said that staff were struggling to circulate with the platters. Apparently a flock of guests had assembled around the exits of the kitchens in order to block the path of any fleeing servers attempting to smuggle sustenance to those in need.

Ugh.

I was absolutely thrilled when about fifteen miserable minutes later, while hunched over the bar the same waiter reemerged from nowhere with a mini prawn burger impaled on a toothpick – just for me. You see? That’s service – and you my friend are my new favourite.

Apparently the whole purpose of this event was to save dolphins, feed starving donkeys – I don’t know… something was getting saved. But really (apart from the back patting and smiling for the camera) people show up in droves to these sorts of events because it’s an opportunity to mingle, make contacts and exchange business cards.

So I came armed with a fresh box of 100 ‘Executive assistant’ cards in my purse.

Mamma didn’t raise no foo.

I tried to circulate. I really did. I had practiced the flippy “here’s my card…” James Bond-esque motion in the mirror for hours the night before. But as I had come straight from the office I was wearing my best summery Primark dress (that was 100% suitable for the office) with black ankle boots. You might inwardly recoil when I say this, but it seriously looked hot. Very “corporate proffesh.” Unfortunately it was not suitable camouflage for this particular event and I noticed a whirl of lepperdom that followed me wherever I went. After a while I trundled off, looking at all the lovely (if hideously expensive) things on show for a silent auction later that evening –

queenie

art

art3

…but hovering near a painting meant that the privately hired Art popo (who were armed to the teeth like Somali pirates) did the same while flexing muscles under their monkey suits. This was not going well.

To my relief a young lady with a giant woven basket suddenly teetered over to me and asked if I wanted to participate in a raffle.

Young Lady: “You have a one in three chance of winning!”

Well, I reasoned, maybe this wouldn’t be a total loss after all. I might win something fabulous. Like a speedboat! Or my very own butler!

Young Lady: “Tickets are just £100!”

Hmm, I think I just solved the mystery of the whole “One-in-three” thing. I would literally be the third person to enter.

Me: “I’d love to… but I left my larger bank notes in my other purse. So sorry…” *pause* “But while you’re here… My card?”

Urgh. That will teach me to make eye contact with people. I sat in the losers seat, which was at the bar all alone (champagne flute in hand) and kept busy by scanning the crowd. I’m hopeless with celebrities, so this was like playing “guess who?” with my brain. Just when the boredom was setting in I spotted something on the bar.

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On closer inspection it was a prawn burger, much like the one I had inhaled earlier. Only one of the social X-rays had sucked out the protein and discarded the carbs on the bar, like a Prada wearing succubus. It was at that moment, snorting champagne out my nose as I choked down some laughter, I decided it was time to go home.

At least I survived the night relatively unscathed. Sure I was treated like an outbreak of botulism – but whats new?

You can’t say being a PA isn’t glamorous…

Oh wait, I think I just did.

Snap

 

Penis hat

I was trundling past a weird little street kiosk that sold birthday cards and random tourist items when I did a double take.

wpid-dsc_2059.jpg No… It couldn’t be… Could it?!

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There was a kids hat in what I assumed was supposed to be the form of a pig. But instead of giving the pig a short snout, they seemed to have given it a penis instead.

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I conferred with my friends on Facebook and thankfully they agreed that, yes. This “snout” did indeed look like a penis.

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Which was comforting.

Week 3 of my 12 week fitness challenge

Day 1 – Cardio Day

Today I did TaeBo. I was excited and scared at the same time, because this was the first time I had dusted off my old Tae Bo DVD’s during my 12 week challenge. I used to do TaeBo DVD’s all the time when I was uber fit in my late teens / early twenties. It’s no coincidence. These workout are insanely fun, hard to do and it feels like you burn a billion calories each workout. I love them. What I don’t love is the “Who’s yo Daddy, who’s yo Daddy, who’s yo Daddy?!” feeling the next day that causes fleeting concerns that you may have been run over by a bus during the night and just didn’t notice. However, the results I get are brilliant, so I might do a DVD each week as a workout substitute if I’m feeling too lazy to do my own cardio set.

I’ll probably take that back tomorrow though. It just depends how much post workout pain I’m in.

Day 2 – Arms Day

Arms day! Arms day! I’m loving arms day, because my little bingo-wing paunch is finally tightening up a bit. It might not look like it on the outside to the casual observer, but it sure as hell feels like it on the inside. I know I’m not supposed to see a real difference in myself until the end of week four – but I can tell that things are getting firmer and stronger on the inside already. It’s a good if weird feeling.

Day 3 – Rest Day

I think I should probably count today as weights and cardio because I was hauling a mini suitcase, guitar and handbag from my house to the office; followed this by running lots of errands for my boss for eight hours and then hauled arse yet again to Kings Cross in time to catch the train for my minibreak weekend visiting my parents. I got on the train, puffing and wheezing away to myself from the effort of negotiating my way through a human obstical course – and Mothership turns to me and says “Why don’t you look… dewey!” Which is Mothership for “What the hell happened to you? Do you need to breathe into a bag?!”

sotired1

Day 4 – Core and Arms

Today I did a split-set between my core and my arms. I used a pair of Motherships 3kg weights instead of my usual 5lb ones and went through my usual set for an hour and a half. I brought Mr Maybe’s resistance band with me to use for my workout and I felt amazing afterwards. I’m always a little wary of using resistance bands considering the amount of times I have accidentily hit myself in the face with one during a work out. But this time I managed to refrain from facial injury. Which was a distinct bonus.

I celebrated my success with a well earned bubble bath and a Moringa smoothie. I made this with Alpen, Moringa powder, chia seeds, dates and almond milk. It might sound gross, but it was pretty tasty!

smoothie

I wallowed in the tub with a Kaolin-mud face mask, Storm of Swords Game of Thrones book and my chilled smoothie until my toes got all wrinkley and Mothership banged on the door of the bathroom asking me if I was still alive in there.

restdayweek2

 

Ah, bliss!

Day 5 – Core and Arms

I did the same as yesturday today, focusing on arms and core using weights and the resistance band. I can feel a subtle ache from the previous workout. I never thought of myself as a masochist – but I have to say I like it.

sore

One obstical I am trying to overcome is that one of my arms has a bit of nerve damage in it (thanks to a school camping trip and a teacher who thought it would be funny to tighten the strap of my backpack until it partially cut off my circulation during a day-long hike in the peak district), so it’s a bit weaker than the other. I’ll need to work on this a bit more to make the strength in my arms even. I can do more reps with my “strong” arm but have to remember that I shouldn’t neglect my weaker one. I don’t want to look lopsided or anything. Because that would be weird.

Day 6 – Rest Day

Today I spent watching Pretty Little liars, resting and gorging on my latest installment of Game of thrones. And eating fruit salad. Which is a vital part of any rest day I hope you can agree. Mr Maybe said something surprising while taking a long sideways glance at me today. He said: “Babe, have your boobs gotten bigger?” I said I was pretty sure they hadn’t but he was adement. “No babe seriously. Your boobs look bigger! Maybe it’s because you’ve lost weight around your ribs?”
Hmm. I’m not sure if this is a weird side effect of toning up or all in my boyfriends head. But I spent the next half an hour staring at myself with one eye closed and my head cocked to one side.

fruitsaladme

 

Day 7 – Legs Day (Run)

Today I’m going for my run. I’m really looking forward to this. Sort of. Since hayfever has been blinding me, it’s been difficult to negotiate a route that is beside a road without weaving into oncoming traffic by accident. So I have made the executive decision to ease off on the outside jaunts until I have my face a little more under control. Mr Maybe has taken pity on me and come home armed with bags of hayfever remedies and medication. Which I find quite romantic actually. Don’t say it with jewelry – when I’m miserable and suffering, say it with aloe balm tissues and non-drowsey antehystamine tablets! Ever since I have been using the nasal spray before bed I have been able to sleep much better. Which has made Mr Maybe incredibly happy because it means I’m no longer waking up multiple times during the night to blow my nose or whimper softly to myself.

This is why I love that man.

Week 2 of my 12 week fitness challenge

Day 1 – Cardio Day

Today I did my Core workout. It was pretty intense. All the scissor kicks, sit up variations, fire hydrants, planks and leg raises are kicking my arse. In a way it’s great because I can tell that my back and stomach are getting stronger from all the support I’m building. It’s just the effort that goes into a workout that floors me. I have a serious love / hate relationship going on. I love the smug feeling I get once I’ve done a workout but I hate the fact that I have to spend an hour headbutting my belly button to feel that way.

After any session I do I usually feel so pumped up on adrenaline and endorphins I feel like I could lift an armoured truck if I wanted to. This feeling is only temporary. When my body clocks on to the fact that there are no armoured trucks to lift I have a shower, put a nice pair of PJ’s and as soon as that happens there aint no way I’m doing anything other than sitting on the sofa, drinking a protein shake, watching Pretty Little Liars and having a nap until Mr Maybe comes home.

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Day 2 – Rest day and food porn

Today was rest day. I spent it watching movies with Mr Maybe and soaking in a bubble bath with a cheeky glass of red wine (I know! Naughty!) I feels like I only just had a rest day but I sorely needed to have a date night with my boyfriend that wasn’t precursored by a deeply unsexy hour or so of red-faced grunting, lifting weights or getting chased outside by an invisible doberman.

So, to make sure you remain entertained during this little intermission – I bent to nonexistant demand and finally made the slide show of the things I have been eating during my 12 week fitness challenge that nobody asked for.

If you are not a fan of food-porn then look away now.

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Day 3 – Legs Day

Today was legs day. Which obviously means that I will be unable to go to the toilet tomorrow without audibly whimpering in pain. But that’s fine. I need to get my legs into shape and it’s not like the excess fat is just going to leap off my body by itself. Attention must be paid.

Mini Maybe is at the flat at the moment. Which made slapping on the spandex and sumo squatting with a dumbbell really quite awkward. No kid should witness a potential stepmother getting butt-crack sweat. However I got through my hours workout like a champ… Despite Mini-Maybe asking “Does it hurt?” in sporadic intervals. This is because I look like I’m going to die when I work out. I’m reduced to a groaning shell of my former self.

I seriously don’t know how people get “hit on” at the gym. Talk about awkward. I can’t imagine anything worse than having someone ask me out while I’m dripping with sweat. I don’t look sexy while lifting weights. I look like I’m about to give birth through my butthole. But you know what? That’s because I’m pushing myself.

Day 4 – Rest Day – Heading off for a mini-break in Nottingham

Today is Rest Day. Mr Maybe has whisked me off to Nottingham to visit Mother Maybe for her birthday this weekend. I was both excited and nervous about this. Because while I had met Mr Maybe’s family before – this was a family event, which was totally different. Questions could be asked. I might be put on the spot about babies or marriage and be unable to use my boyfriend as a human shield. The upshot to the impending potential for desaster was that Mother Maybe is a huge dog lover – so if things went tits up I could drown myself in puppies for the duration of the weekend.

It started well though. Especially when Mr Maybe was forced to get in the boot / dog jail due to lack of space in the car.

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Day 5 – Cardio day (I go for a run with my adopted wold pack)

Today was Cardio Day. Mother Maybe was initially concerned her dogs might maul me on entering her house, as they “don’t do so well with strangers.” I was braced for some form of attack, trying to remember what to do if this sort of thing happened. Play dead? Yell? Climb a tree? No, wait that was bears wasn’t it?

However, apart from one minor headbutting incident – no snarls, barks or tooth bearing occoured.
So while Mother Maybe took the wolf pack for a walk, I forged ahead for a run with George.
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Isn’t he good looking?! Obviously he showed me up entirety and left me in the dust in a matter of seconds. But it was great to try and keep up with him. He bounced along with as much enthusiasm as a laker girl experiencing a sugar rush. And you know what? I’m not complaining. I just have to figure out how to smuggle him into my suitcase and take him home with me.

Day 6 – Rest – Sadly today I’m heading home from our mini break in Nottingham. It’s been relaxing (and itchy thanks to my hayfever) but I’ve loved it. Mr Maybe patted my arm and said “Well done.” Which kind if made me feel like a “best in show” ribbon-winner at crafts. But – meh, I guess I’ll take it.

 

Day 7 – Arms Day
Arms day today! I did my usual set using 5lb weights and felt amazing (if sweaty) afterwards. I was looking forward to making some progress with arms over the past two weeks and if youre very quiet, squint and look closely I think this may have happened.

 

backandarmsstartingppoint week2backandarms

It’s only week two – but thankfully another 2lbs have been concored. Bring on week 2!

How to dry a towel.

There are some people out there that defy the laws of the universe. People who are incapable of doing the simplest things without the aid of a map, a step by step guide or some form of instructional video. People that are so infuriating with their lack of awareness that it makes you want to unleash your inner war cry and beat them with the nearest object. Like a stapler. Or a rock.

One thing that drives me crazy to the point of teeth gnashing is an improperly hung towel.

This might sound petty, but I experience cascading waves of multicoloured fury when a towel has gone from neatly hung and dry to USED AND LEFT RUMPLED ON THE FLOOR IN A DISCARDED LUMP OF SOUR-COTTON STINKINESS AND FAILURE.

Ahem.

I could deal with an improperly hung towel when they were left that way by my old housemates. I didn’t give a flying fart if their towels smelt like sour cream. They were fools to themselves. But since moving in with my magically delicious boyfriend Mr Maybe I have noticed that my very own boyfriend is similarly incapable of using a towel of any shape or size and returning it from whence it came neatly and considerately.

This is baffling. It’s baffling because in every other way he is entirely logical. How can he not understand that leaving a damp bath towel rumpled on the floor or thrown haphazardly over the towel rail will mean that the next time he comes to use it, it will probably still be damp and icky and smell like a recycling bin? I wouldn’t mind if this was the end of the matter. But rather than using his own stinky towel the next time he comes to have a shower – he uses my towel instead! My fresh-smelling, dry and fluffy towel. Which I will later discover thrown on the floor in a damp heap.

This is when I worry I may suffer an aneurism / stroke from the pure rage coursing through my body and be discovered dead in the bathroom a week later – next to a stinky towel. And then people will come to my funeral and gossip around the plate of cucumber sandwiches at the wake because I don’t know how to hang my towels properly. And I will flick rude hand gestures at the lot of them from the grave.

Mr Maybe adopts this whole hippy-dippy, hipster attitude when it comes to trying to reason with him about this issue. He gives me the “What does it matter?” / “It’s just a towel!” / “Did you not get enough hugs as a child?!” / “Don’t be so bourgeoise!” speech that makes me so mad that I start laughing. This is something I have inherited from Daddyo. I laugh when I’m furious – which makes it really hard to be taken seriously when you’re trying to argue your point, I can tell you.

So – just in case you are cohabiting with a spouse … or have just moved in with a partner and may be unaware of the havoc and stress your blithe towel attitude is wreaking in others who may or may not be suffering in silence… Pay close attention.

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Bad towel

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towel yes

Towels do not dry like this:

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This is how they start smelling like sour vagina and mould.

Drying it like this –

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is the correct way to hang a freaking towel.

Now you know.