shambles
My apartment is falling apart. From the broken pipe in the bathroom, to the stove that won't get hotter than 53 degrees, to the dryer that can only be turned on as we're going to bed lest we shout how our day was to each other over the racket. Too much furniture and no one wants to buy it. The kitchen floor won't stay clean and the dog is secretly sleeping on the bed while we're at work. I know this, though I haven't seen it myself, as he is always at the door when I come home, jumping in the air and wagging his tail. But the comforter is always flipped up on the side, which can only mean that he has found a way to crawl underneath the blankets despite lacking opposable thumbs. He's a crafty one, that dog. Now if only he could figure out how to fix the plumbing.