Blest in its cussedness.

there's a woman who tires
of picking up after her lover
so she nails his underwear
to the floor
From Barbara Carey "Routines Are Your Life" in The Ground of Events.

This might be remembered as simple anecdote. But the line endings make one mindful of the poetry. The exhaustion hangs there in the first line and by the third you can sense the frustration banging away.

And so for day 310