if i were still a melodramatic teenager i would call it ennui, world-weariness, or something far beyond my comprehensible years.
since i am not (supposed to be one), this morning i said something much more moderated then,
"here are your newspapers... & letters... & morning tea. i ironed them with your silks.
i couldn't help but notice a letter offering butler services amongst your mail.
perhaps you could start finding my replacement there."
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