Our air conditioning sucks more D than Paris Hilton on any given weekend. This is particularly troublesome because the temperature outdoors is still in the triple digits. I may as well start referring to our apartment as the “oven,” because that’s what it is. A big, hot, steaming oven with a doorbell and a refrigerator. Had my apartment been available during the Holocaust, Hitler would have used it instead of the gas chambers. If I left a pan full of batter on the counter for 45 minutes, I would come back to find a Funfetti birthday cake in its place. I’m going to die in here. Right in my bed. I’m going to wake up with my legs barbecued and smelling like pulled pork, and my torso smoked like baby back ribs. No doubt about it.
I get in moods about once every four or five weeks where I go around Lysol-ing the shit out of every household surface area in my home. This is not often enough to keep a consistently clean living area, but enough to not let living situations get to a repulsive state. I always feel really proud of myself after one of these spells. The kitchen smells like chemically-lemon, the bathroom sparkles, my fingers are left wrinkly. I wish I was inspired to deep-clean more often. My issue with organization still remains a large obstacle, however. A pile of papers, be it mail, magazines, bills, take-out menus, or receipts, never fails to make me feel overwhelmed just by looking at it. I can’t organize. I can just disinfect. You can’t disinfect a disorganized pile. That’s not how it works. I need help.
I’m really grossed out by kitchen sinks. I don’t know what it is about them that makes me uneasy, but I feel like once a dish has touched the it, the bottom needs to be cleaned more thoroughly than the inside of the dish itself. I once heard that one of the cleanest household surfaces in your home is your toilet seat, while the dirtiest place is the kitchen sink. Maybe that’s where this disgust stems from. That could also be something that someone high on Ajax made up once and got repeated 500 too many times. There’s no way to know for sure.
My fish died. I know in my last post I bragged about pulling a Lazarus and bringing my dehydrated, lifeless betta fish back to life, but it only lasted for about five hours. I really thought he might make it, had he been given the chance to adapt to his now sightless eyes, and develop super-fish senses allowing him to now smell his food instead of see it. He didn’t though. He died. Poor little Predator just had too much trauma. He will be missed. I guess I’ll be needing to replace him with Predator 2.
I don’t like having a pet that dies and then replacing it with another pet of the same kind and naming it “Name 2,” but you can’t just take a pair named “Predator & Prey” and then replace one and have them named “Bubbles and Prey” or “Aquaman & Prey.” That’s stupid. It’s going to have to be Predator 2. It sort of sounds like a movie title. In fact, I think it IS a movie title. I’m not sure. I don’t watch movies. I sleep through them.
Well, time to roll out. Adios for now.
“I am going tubing down a river this weekend. Last time I ‘lost’ the drawstring on my trunks and was strolling nude down the river. Pray that my life doesn’t end.”