- There are enormous dust bunnies everywhere, and highly concentrated under my kitchen table, dresser, bed, bookcase, and in the corners, making meaningless small talk with the hairballs.
- In general, dust seems to be a major problem overall, especially in places that have surfaces. Perhaps this high dust concentration is a result of living in an urban area, but I can’t say for sure as I have never done any definitive research on this matter. I am open to all your opinions re: dust.
- There is caked on—there is no other way to describe this and I know it is not a very technical or precise word but—“shit” all over my stove, which is strange because I rarely cook anything that requires more than boiling water so where did all the shit come from? I mean, it definitely looks like burnt food debris in shape and texture. Who knew spilled water could become such a problem?
- My bathroom is like a whole separate issue. The bathtub has a general and persistent mold problem that I have generally and persistently become blind and immune to. There is a ring-would-be-an-understatement around my toilet bowl (a more accurate way to describe this might be necklace, the thick, choker-y kind. For a giant.), a circle of mold that has texture and some height to it around my sink drain, and the floor is perpetually dirty, no matter how much I sweep and/or scrub, which, as I’ve hinted at, I don’t do that often. Because what’s the point since it really doesn’t make a noticeable difference? It would just be like, inefficient.
- This is a one-time-only event and not an ongoing, chronic problem, but I was in the middle of the two-day process of defrosting my fridge and the fluorescent illumination of the open door (I tried, unsuccessfully, to tape down the light button with super-strong, but apparently flawed, packing tape) did not strike me as mood lighting, particularly, nor did the pungent puddle of defrosted ice strike me as mood aroma, particularly.
So no, at the end of our second date, when he said quietly and non-threateningly, yet slightly less innocently as we were making out in the entryway of my building at the time, that he would love to come upstairs, because of the way I had brilliantly set it up, I did not feel the least bit conflicted when I shook my head No, and said, Not tonight.
On our third date he cooked me dinner at his green apartment, which turned out to be crab and ricotta ravioli from scratch, even the pasta, which he made from scratch in his pasta maker (what?),
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