The more I think about it

The more I think about it, the more annoyed I get. Now I can’t even look frumpy in my own home. And forget about scratching my butt. The TV and microwave and toaster and smoke detector are all taking pictures of me and sending them to some poor soul whose job it is to be bored to death. I feel guilty if I don’t at least attempt to look a little nice for my refrigerator now. I think I’ll just go sit in my bedroom in the dark and revel in knowing that no one can see how messy I am… unless those damn things can see in the dark too. Oh no. Get me my tin foil hat STAT.