I am eating generic rice crispies out of the measuring cup, because every other dish in the house is dirty.
I could cook, but it would require removing the turkey-husk (as well as the blackened, brackish, lump behind it) from the oven, not to mention remove the pots of festering side dishes from the stove-top.
There might be something microwavable in the freezer--but the freezer is frozen shut, and I will not chisel it open until a true emergency--such as Ice Cream being brought into the house.
The expensive leather couch and matching chair are both covered in ratty bed sheets-rather than bother cleaning, I can run these through the washer once a year, guilt free.
The bathroom paper sits in its packages atop piles of clean, but semi-folded towels, all handily next to the toilet.
The soap on the sink is glued to the soap-dish by years of its ancestor's accumulated gunk. (It's soap--it's clean, right?)
I have conversations with the mildew in my shower. (They're/It's reading Tolstoy at the moment.)
My cat does battle with critters not yet identified by science, all of which seem to come from my vents.
The computer might be on a desk; or it might be on an array of carefully stacked rubble. I cannot tell anymore.
My apartment does not have rooms. It has tunnels. The safe ways are marked by dirty laundry; the cave-in areas are marked by discarded soda bottles and cans. I do not have a parrot because its a good pet; I have a parrot to test the O2 before I enter any given room.
Other men accept this as they step into what Tolkein described as a wet hole, with moist walls filled with the ends of worms.
But if a woman announces that she desires to call upon me, the place will be immaculate before she arrives, and return to the status quo ten minutes after her departure.
I am bachelor. Hear me roar.
I could cook, but it would require removing the turkey-husk (as well as the blackened, brackish, lump behind it) from the oven, not to mention remove the pots of festering side dishes from the stove-top.
There might be something microwavable in the freezer--but the freezer is frozen shut, and I will not chisel it open until a true emergency--such as Ice Cream being brought into the house.
The expensive leather couch and matching chair are both covered in ratty bed sheets-rather than bother cleaning, I can run these through the washer once a year, guilt free.
The bathroom paper sits in its packages atop piles of clean, but semi-folded towels, all handily next to the toilet.
The soap on the sink is glued to the soap-dish by years of its ancestor's accumulated gunk. (It's soap--it's clean, right?)
I have conversations with the mildew in my shower. (They're/It's reading Tolstoy at the moment.)
My cat does battle with critters not yet identified by science, all of which seem to come from my vents.
The computer might be on a desk; or it might be on an array of carefully stacked rubble. I cannot tell anymore.
My apartment does not have rooms. It has tunnels. The safe ways are marked by dirty laundry; the cave-in areas are marked by discarded soda bottles and cans. I do not have a parrot because its a good pet; I have a parrot to test the O2 before I enter any given room.
Other men accept this as they step into what Tolkein described as a wet hole, with moist walls filled with the ends of worms.
But if a woman announces that she desires to call upon me, the place will be immaculate before she arrives, and return to the status quo ten minutes after her departure.
I am bachelor. Hear me roar.
Last edited: