Taking the phrase "letting myself go" to a whole new level
My long-distance lover arrives on Tuesday. Tuesday. The day after tomorrow. AWK!
come hither - back off
Speaking of which, I will probably be incommunicado for a while as I get my freak on with said long-distance lover. Obviously, I intend to have far, far better things to do with my time than write to you wackos.
For the past two days, I have been working non-stop rabidly cleaning out my apartment. Now, some of you may think, "Oh, Smoog is just being obsessive compulsive in her freaky love state. Smoog wants everything to be perfect for her man when he arrives. Smoog's just paranoid." Uh, no. Smoog is a lazy-assed slob who's been on disability for 6 months and whose apartment subsequently hasn't been touched. Smoog's apartment looks as if a herd of farm pigs took hip hop dance lessons there while roaring drunk the whole time. Smoog's carpet looks like it's diseased. If Smoog gets her security deposit back, it will be a fucking miracle. Needless to say, Smoog doesn't think Smoog and her lover should spend too much time having floor sex while he's there, as Smoog suspects the carpet may well be alive, and hungry.
Even after 2 days of throwing junk out, my apartment still looks as if it houses 5 college students. The garbage is now mostly gone, but the dust, dirt, grime, and cat fur stuck to everything gives the space a decidedly moldy appearance. The kitchen is now in the worst condition, with piles of dishes strewn everywhere and a stack of old pizza boxes (I haven't eaten pizza in months, and the boxes are still there - that should tell you how bad it is) in the corner that needs throwing out. I also have to don a hazmat suit and tackle the kitchen garbage can. It has apparently become home to umpteen gazillion fruitflies, and no matter how much I spray the fuckers, they still keep multiplying. So - great. I have a moldy, living-carpety, bug-infested apartment for my lover to live in for 8 days. Welcome to my world, sweetie. Love me, love my dirt.
The carpet is, indeed, so bad that the vacuum doesn't do shit. That's because all the bits and pieces of crud on the carpet are woven into this thick matt of embedded cat fur that coats the carpet surface, fur that can only be removed through heavy duty friction. This means that today I will be spending my time on my hands and knees scraping the equivalent to 6 or 7 cats out of my carpet. I did a 3' x 3' square in my bedroom yesterday; the cat fur and crap embedded into it that I pulled up was so revolting I think I actually threw up a little in my mouth. Really.
In the process of said cleaning, I have also been unpacking. No, I didn't just move in. Yes, I've been here for 2 years. What's your fucking point? My life motto is, "If it doesn't need to come out of the box, then why not just leave it in the box?" If you think about it, that motto can apply to a hell of a lot more than just moving homes.
So - today will primarily be devoted to cleaning surfaces - the surface of the carpet, the surface of the tile floors, the surface of the kitchen counters, the surface of the toilet, sink, and bathtub, and the surface of the walls. God, the walls. What, was I wandering through the halls every day with my hands covered in slime mold or something? Jesus fuck.
This process of cleaning such a disaster revealed something I always suspected of myself: I have let myself go. I have really, really let myself go. I am willing to live in squalor for months on end and I just don't care. This revelation was further enforced when, in my peeling away of the layers of junk on the floor, I discovered this:
That was me. That was me. I actually looked like that at some point in my past. What's worse, I can't even remember. That photo must have been taken before my brain surgery, because I have absolutely no recollection of having posed for it nor any recollection of having been a fucking bombshell. I missed my bombshell years. That is so unfair. I could have had so much fun. Maybe I even did. Dammit anyway.
And just how much have I let myself go, you ask? Let me remind you of my recent passport photo:
Yes, that's actually the same person. I have gone from sultry movie maven to baby-eating thugwoman. You too can achieve such a transformation without the aid of surgery by simply not doing shit for yourself for years on end. Don't wash, don't brush, don't buy groceries but just eat the packaged shit you can pick up in a corner store, don't walk anywhere for too long as this might be construed by your body as "exercise," and whatever you do, don't quit smoking. Extra points will be given for chronic illness and/or injury that lays you up for over a year, turns your remaining muscle tone to mush, and requires large doses of medication that lower your metabolism so far that biologically speaking you're just this side of comatose.
This is why I never take photos of myself, or keep them. If you ever want to accentuate your inner baby-eating thugwoman, hold onto pictures like that one of myself. That way, when you're fat, wrinkly, saggy and gray-haired, you can turn to your photo album and experience that wondrous "greater than / less than" feeling where you actually become envious of yourself. On the plus side, of course, I can always whip it out to prove to doubting friends that I was once pretty. "I was so. Look! See? Bah! I win! Fork over the cash!"
Hey, I could probably make a killing.
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