I don't iron jack shit.

There are certain tasks whose fulfillment you recognize will only help you in the long run—tasks that, perhaps, take no longer than five minutes to accomplish, and whose payoffs exceed the invested effort. And yet, to have someone ask you to complete them is on par with it being requested that you launch yourself to the moon using the sole propulsion of your farts: it's just not going to happen. Unless you're a super genius who works for NASA and has invented a technology being kept from the rest of the world, in which case, shame on you.

Ironing is such a tedious chore for me. But really, how long does it take to de-wrinkle a garment? Not that long. And how much more professional and with it do you look as a result of doing so? Like, a whole lot more. Nevertheless, my reaction to being asked to iron something is the same as a puppy rebelling against a leash while thinking, "Fuck this right now," and then laying down to take a nap on the sidewalk. Ask me to iron something, and I will lay down on the floor to nap instead. Like that little girl on the beach, because she gets it.

Inhabit slip dress

Zara long poplin shirt and necklace

Alberta Ferretti kitten heels