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Washcloths
Washcloths. Little towels but not just for little people. For little parts of the body. The face. The hands. The feet. I guess not everyone is like me...I only wash my face once a day, when I'm taking a shower. I put on moisturizer after my shower, but I don't wear makeup, so I don't see any reason to wash my face at the end of the day. It would just dry out my skin. Maybe people in general don't need to wash as often as they do, people in the US, in our current society. But how else would all the soaps and moisturizers and skin care items have a market?
I'm not really enjoying this freewrite. I mean, whatever. It's a freewrite. It's to get me writing. But I prefer when they spark a story of some sort. Or let me examine thoughts that have been weighing on me. Maybe I should search for a memory. But when I think about searching for a memory, inevitably my hands stop typing and then I'm not keeping with the spirit of the freewrite, so I keep writing about that process and never get around to a memory. Memory. Memory. I never have had a great memory, or so I've always thought. I don't remember if most of the stories from my childhood are actual memories, or memories of telling the stories. Is there any difference? If the first time I told the story, it was an actual memory, and every time thereafter is a memory of the previous time, isn't it still the memory?
