Everything was fine until the to-do list developed a personality. At first, it simply rearranged itself — moving “water the plants” above “be a functioning human,” which felt fair — but by lunchtime it had begun adding things no one wrote. The first mysterious entry appeared in confident handwriting: carpet cleaning ashford. The list offered no reasoning. It just sat there, smug, like a cat that knows you won’t get up to move it.
A few lines later, another item appeared: sofa cleaning ashford. No checkbox. No bullet point. Just floating in the middle as if the list had decided to become poetic or cryptic, or possibly both.
By mid-afternoon, the list had added upholstery cleaning ashford — this time in all caps, as though it were yelling, or trying to establish dominance. No one argued. The list was clearly in a mood.
Then, some time between a snack break and a full existential crisis, the words mattress cleaning ashford appeared in tiny lettering at the bottom, like a whisper. It felt less like a task and more like a hint from a ghost who had strong opinions about bedtime.
The final addition arrived dramatically — underlined twice, slightly slanted, somehow giving off the energy of a detective reveal scene: rug cleaning ashford. At this point, the list wasn’t a reminder anymore. It was a riddle that refused to explain itself.
No one checked anything off.
No one attempted to erase it.
Instead, the list was left on the counter like a prophecy, or a dare, or a sentence missing its story.
By evening, one thing was clear: not all lists exist to be completed. Some exist to ruin your sense of certainty, rearrange your priorities, and absolutely refuse to tell you why.
And honestly, it was kind of refreshing.