Saturday, January 23, 2010
God's address
If God is the continuum in which events flow, then there’s every reason to identify ourselves with him… because we are really the continuum in which events flow.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
This place needs a woman's touch... badly
I just waked into the kitchen and took a look at what’s going on in there. The trashcan has literally vanished under a massive heap of garbage that almost fills the room. A blockade of trash has cut off my ability to reach the cupboards. There are a lot crushed pizza boxes, broken wine glasses, filthy dishes, a teapot full of mold, and other things like that. I don’t dare even contemplate the biological hazard brewing inside the sink, which has been clogged for weeks. Adding to the ambiance is the stench of my cat’s litter box, which I can barely even see, much less scoop the turds out of. It’s fucking heinous.
The other rooms are pretty bad too. In my bedroom lies what Lauren calls the “clothes monster”, a heap of dirty clothes that make it impossible to set foot on the hardwood floor, which if memory serves correctly, is quite lovely. If someone were to say, sweep this floor, they would collect pounds of cat hair and dirt. Judging from the smell, I suspect that my cats have given up on the litter pan and begun peeing in my closet. I can’t rightly be angry with them about this, considering the current state of the litter box. Even the living room is littered with dirty socks and trash.
It occurs to me that the dirtier my home gets, the harder it is to clean it. It just turns to squalor and depresses me. My home ought to be my sanctuary, but instead it’s this dump I can barely deal with, so I avoid it altogether. Instead of relaxing, I leave and go to the coffee shop instead. And the mess just accumulates.
It’s just the same as when I lived on Poplar Avenue in Memphis. The kitchen in that place degenerated into something totally uninhabitable, complete with fruit flies and roaches and rotten food. No wonder I was having hallucinations back then.
The old “bat cave” on Tremont here in Denver suffered a similar fate when I lived there. My time in the bat cave ended with all the windows broken out and the hardware ruined. I pity anyone foolish enough to try and use that bathtub after the mess I left in it.
I manage to go on living this way because every so often some woman comes around with a motherly instinct and cleans the place for me. It’s usually an epic task involving all manner of industrial cleaning products and gear. My last girlfriend was very good about taking care of all this, but she’s gone now and I am once again called upon to live like a responsible adult with no mom to clean my room for me.
Many times I swore I would never live like this again, especially if I could ever get a decent apartment. Well, now I have a really nice place and nothing much has changed. What can I say, I’m a fucking slob.
The other rooms are pretty bad too. In my bedroom lies what Lauren calls the “clothes monster”, a heap of dirty clothes that make it impossible to set foot on the hardwood floor, which if memory serves correctly, is quite lovely. If someone were to say, sweep this floor, they would collect pounds of cat hair and dirt. Judging from the smell, I suspect that my cats have given up on the litter pan and begun peeing in my closet. I can’t rightly be angry with them about this, considering the current state of the litter box. Even the living room is littered with dirty socks and trash.
It occurs to me that the dirtier my home gets, the harder it is to clean it. It just turns to squalor and depresses me. My home ought to be my sanctuary, but instead it’s this dump I can barely deal with, so I avoid it altogether. Instead of relaxing, I leave and go to the coffee shop instead. And the mess just accumulates.
It’s just the same as when I lived on Poplar Avenue in Memphis. The kitchen in that place degenerated into something totally uninhabitable, complete with fruit flies and roaches and rotten food. No wonder I was having hallucinations back then.
The old “bat cave” on Tremont here in Denver suffered a similar fate when I lived there. My time in the bat cave ended with all the windows broken out and the hardware ruined. I pity anyone foolish enough to try and use that bathtub after the mess I left in it.
I manage to go on living this way because every so often some woman comes around with a motherly instinct and cleans the place for me. It’s usually an epic task involving all manner of industrial cleaning products and gear. My last girlfriend was very good about taking care of all this, but she’s gone now and I am once again called upon to live like a responsible adult with no mom to clean my room for me.
Many times I swore I would never live like this again, especially if I could ever get a decent apartment. Well, now I have a really nice place and nothing much has changed. What can I say, I’m a fucking slob.
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