Maybe her red laundry basket wasn't as plastic as her, but it was as full. And her enthusiasm, or what was left of it, was much more stale than the two week old laundry inhabiting said basket.
Listless, she raised her glance to the laundry basket. It was red, and huge to an extent that she couldn't circumscribe it with her arms.
For a moment, she was appalled by the amount of laundry in it. She thought, if her laundries had sentience and a way to communicate, they wouldn't have much to talk about. If her life was a book, this thought now could transition into how the last couple of weeks were uneventful, and lead to a flashback describing some boring event following another boring event following another boring event leading up to this somatically uneventful yet emotionally imperative cathartic moment.
She pondered, was her life pulp; were lives supposed to be not pulp?
