A Chore

Mom wants to know that she has bred a brood of toilet cleaners. She believes bleach brings you closer to the heavens — after all, cleanliness is next to godliness.
I scrub mean. Like on cellulite toward the heart. Quick circular motions as if I were Nancy Kerrigan, only 17, on the first sign of lakes freezing over. With boys watching faces ruddy from cold.
Round and round, like wheels of the early morning bus I manage to catch, instead of the six dollar cab.
I save much.
Mother's wrinkles, and my reputation as not-so-good-for-nothing.
Because, you see, toilet cleaning calls your character into question.
The highest tile unscrupulously cleaned is a testament to your unwavering determination. And the fact that you're scrubbing, instead of surfing, is evidence that procrastination was murdered single-handedly.
Although what actually died a bloody death, was a cockroach that couldn't brush dodge very well.
Die! Die! Die! What joy!
(Death too, is part of godliness you see.) Goodbye, scrambling dirtball. Your funeral has made my proud mommy smile.