Housekeeping

Now that I have voluntarily saddled myself with a place of my own, I am discovering all kinds of things about myself.

Being able to vent gases as loudly as I want, whenever I want, has a certain cathartic appeal; but in all honesty, if no-one is around to be impressed or repulsed, there isn't much point to it.

Cleaning also has a new twist to it. It's easier to do it, since I know for sure that if I don't, nobody else will. By the same token, when I do clean, I'm not scrubbing someone else's food from the stovetop, or wiping someone else's pubic trimmings from the rim of the toilet seat (there are aspects to my time in Sacramento that I would glady forget). So while my apartment still tends to adopt a certain atmosphere of disarray, I've been much better about it than I have in my last few apartments (sorry, John).

On the other end of the spectrum, paying bills has developed an entirely new and horrible significance. Now that I'm not splitting the rent and utilities two or three ways, I have realized that paying $50 every month for 80 channels of screeching bullshit is a luxury that I can afford to pass up.

Fin.