I’m now in the second hour of cleaning my bathroom, which is really not big enough that it should demand this long. It’s just that it was a level of dirty so severe that even I was having issues with it. I generally don’t mind wallowing in my own filth, but only find the filth of others offensive.
I was working my ass off on my book proposal for the last several months and kind of let my apartment cleaning duties go. Nobody ever comes over to my house, so it doesn’t really matter how bad it looks most of the time anyway. But now that the proposal is out and *my agent* is on the case, I can go back to my regularly scheduled life. But first I have to catch up.
Fans, you know how after a while you come to adapt to and accept a new environment? I’m particularly good at it. On long road trips and when I used to get locked in the basement as a kid, I wouldn’t really mind it. I would just treat it as my new environment and not compare it to the old one.
It turns out it’s bad to do this when you’re an adult and your environment is your apartment. I had come to think of the style of my bathroom as being accented with “stripes” and “spots” and having an interesting “sheen,” but now that I’ve started cleaning, I realized that these are in fact “molded grout” and “stains” and “a crusty layer over everything.”
Oops.
So anyway, that’s why I need a wife. Not because s/he will do the cooking and cleaning for me (though that would be nice), but because s/he will remind me that I haven’t eaten anything except pizza for the past four days and am really starting to smell. That’s what I call a real domestic partnership.