My apartment's been a bit of a pig sty as of late. I'm not kidding, it's disgusting. Somewhere between waking up at 4:30 a.m. to go to work and running 20-milers in my spare time, I got tired of upkeep. Clothes on the couch that were left to lie wherever I took them off, bra on the floor, dirty dishes stacked on the microwave, dust on every surface, unmade bed, cat litter tracked on the carpeting, AIDS in the kitchen sink, the bubonic plague in the couch cushions. You know, whatever. It finally struck me this week that my home is disgusting. I think it hit about the time I walked into the bathroom and saw that Harley - God love her - shit on my one remaining bath mat. Oh, I had two. Once. Before Harley shit on the first one months ago.
It struck me again when I returned from work the other afternoon to find that Chicken - sweet, sweet girl - vomited on my clothes, that were strewn across the floor.
There is some sort of pattern here. Either, my cats are assholes, or they're trying to tell me something. Namely, "clean your damn apartment, you wretched whore."
And so I finally did.
I spent yesterday afternoon dusting every surface, every object, every corner. I vacuumed every square inch, and tossed out random shit that I don't feel like packing when the time comes (uh, like, tomorrow?). I put my clothes away, made my bed, scooped up the AIDS and the plague. It's a whole new world in there.
Nevermind that there are still dirty dishes stacked on my microwave. But seriously. I'd rather nap with hypodermic needles than wash dirty dishes. I do not kid. I hate it. So give me some time on that one.