(no subject)
I just found a maggot in the kitchen. That's right, a maggot. Last time I checked, it wasn't the 17th century, and yet for some reason I find feculence prospering everywhere I go. So much so that I believe the word "feculence" will need to make an appearance in every livejournal entry I write this month.
It's bad enough spending half my life in a share-house (Mat, Si and now Ty [by the way, aren't I clever with the rhyming and the cuteness and the...yeah. okay, no.]), where the grime runs wild and unadulterated and various insects feast with relish upon leftover pork gristle, sink scum and bodily remnants (mostly phlegm and toenail clippings, I think). I mean, I know they're men and all, which obviously means they work harder and have worse hangovers than us lucky womenfolk, so therefore are incapable of pouring soap on a dish then rinsing it with water. Or urinating into the actual toilet bowl, rather than kinda just in the general vicinity of it...with their eyes closed, so it would seem.
As I was saying, it's easy to put up with that sort of thing, because I more or less understand it. In the words of Marie Curie, "nothing in life is to be feared, it is only to be understood." Until it kills you, apparently, if her bio is anything to go by. However, all well-meaning but otherwise useless advice aside, when I find a live MAGGOT (as in the kind that usually writhe around inside rotting corpses) in my own house, where I live, and eat, and clean up after myself, along with a Mother, who also cleans (obsessively), well I have to say I am afraid. Afraid that's just going too far, and we might as well throw in the towel and sleep with the pigs in a barn and eat nothing but ox tongue stew.
It's bad enough spending half my life in a share-house (Mat, Si and now Ty [by the way, aren't I clever with the rhyming and the cuteness and the...yeah. okay, no.]), where the grime runs wild and unadulterated and various insects feast with relish upon leftover pork gristle, sink scum and bodily remnants (mostly phlegm and toenail clippings, I think). I mean, I know they're men and all, which obviously means they work harder and have worse hangovers than us lucky womenfolk, so therefore are incapable of pouring soap on a dish then rinsing it with water. Or urinating into the actual toilet bowl, rather than kinda just in the general vicinity of it...with their eyes closed, so it would seem.
As I was saying, it's easy to put up with that sort of thing, because I more or less understand it. In the words of Marie Curie, "nothing in life is to be feared, it is only to be understood." Until it kills you, apparently, if her bio is anything to go by. However, all well-meaning but otherwise useless advice aside, when I find a live MAGGOT (as in the kind that usually writhe around inside rotting corpses) in my own house, where I live, and eat, and clean up after myself, along with a Mother, who also cleans (obsessively), well I have to say I am afraid. Afraid that's just going too far, and we might as well throw in the towel and sleep with the pigs in a barn and eat nothing but ox tongue stew.