I Can Only Laugh

I haven't paid much attention to my house the last few weeks because of how busy I've been with work and school. Today was the first day I've actually gotten around my house without being rushed and I was able to finally realize how much I truly hate it.

For example, here's a cool story from my childhood. My church used to have a little room where you could go and pick up cheap, old food for free (I think) on Sundays. It was probably food meant for poor folk like my family in order to keep us kicking a few more weeks so we could make more tithes the next day. Well, I used to take a sandwich and hide it under the seat in our van and check on it the following week to see how much mold had grown. It looked like a giant fuzzy guinea pig in a box each week. It was epic.

That's how my bathroom looks. It's a mold haven. There's more species of mold on my shower curtain alone than in that old sandwich box. It's gotten to the point that I just imagine I'm bathing in a forest...of mold. Even the floor is moldy. I think I used a gallon of bleach to clean that bathroom today.

Next, I hate my basement. When I was a little girl, my family would go to caves for vacations. It was dark, dingy, mysterious, and eerie. That's how I feel about my basement. It's a cramped, quiet, musky cavern beneath the world, out of sight and out of mind until you need your laundry. The basement still isn't the worse thing. The rugs are centuries old and cover the floors from wall to wall, every room and crevice. They have cool little stains on them. It looks like a dog went around and piddled everywhere. My kitchen is covered in hard-water stains. My house is amazing.

There are also bars on the windows. In order to secure the house from any possible Anderson killers, my roommate walked around when she first moved in and placed pieces of two-by-fours on every window and door. Now there are boards keeping the windows from opening. I feel like I'm in prison, figuratively and literally. On the bright side, I know I'll never get killed.

Unless the killer just decides to pick the one door handle lock on our door and walk in...