THIS PLACE IS A MESS
Too many books. A huge number of which I haven't finished reading, and others I would like to reread but cannot find.
Enough pipe tobacco to survive the end of the world, bring on the zombies.
Porcelain objects - including a Shekwan grinning degenerate.
Stacks, piles, boxes, and heaps.
Not nearly enough shelf space.
My bed is perfect proof of my personality.
It contains cookbooks, eight or nine years worth of Pipes And Tobaccos magazine, an Edward Gorey compendium, language study materials, manga series, a dictionary or two........
A sheet which is so old the material rips easily.
Pillows higgeldy piggeldy.
And two monkeys.
In addition to several other stuffed animals.
One of the monkeys (Urasmus Wazzoo) is a one-legged reprobate who was traumatised in the product development lab at work long ago, the other one is a small squat simian with lovely thick soft fur, who claims that his name is Arabella Oyster.
And everybody loves oysters.
He's happy about that.
The first mentioned is more than a little bit insane, the second is an extremely well-balanced individual, though often somewhat innocent.
He has faith in his fellow creatures.
Urasmus wants to kill him.
My apartment mate is a much neater person.
Her room is tidy, especially when compared to mine.
The various fuzzy creatures in her room are well-behaved.
There are no tins of pipe-tobacco obscuring the volumes arranged in her book cases, and no stacks of reading matter on the floor or in the bed.
I've offered, but she firmly resisted.
She says she has enough stuff.
No need for anymore things.
Especially not tobaccos.
It looks empty to me.
In my defense, I do the dishes much more often than she does, and much better.
That's something I have a peculiar talent for. Somehow I doubt that most women are equally blessed. I remember years ago a friend who insisted that the glasses in her kitchen cabinet were clean. They just had to be, they had been washed when they were put in there months ago. She could not feel the thin layer of grime, nor see the hazy film deposited on the surface. They had NOT been used since they came out of the machine, ergo it stood to reason that they were still good.
Another woman I knew had a layer of grease on everything.
Even her floors were oily - good for the wood, I guess.
A rich patina on the walls adds so much to life.
But it rather detracts from the table silver.
Not to mention the cups and saucers.
Why is an oil-slick on my tea?
My apartment mate is not that bad, not by a wide margin.
Still, I have several times over the years re-scrubbed the plates and cutlery that she put in the rack, after she's left the house in the morning.
That's something I've haven't ever mentioned to her.
It would be pointless to point it out, and cruel.
She doesn't have eyes in her fingertips.
I'm a frightfull slob.
A clean one.
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