Sunday, January 08, 2006
On the General Decline of Things
Roommate Liz and I haven't been home a whole awful lot in the past few weeks, and our apartment is slowly but surely turning into an opium den. I feel like we may need to hire a housekeeper, preferably one who is magic and sings.
We have remote controls everywhere, and yet none of them serves to turn on the television. Some of them don't seem to turn on anything at all.
There is a jar of laxative sitting on one of our living room chairs. How it got there or who felt the need "bring their own party," we will never know.
My plant is apparently trying to kill itself, despite my pencil-involving intervention attempts. The potting soil habit can be a truly cruel one.
And, perhaps most classily, we have garbage in our back hallway. Thank God for the careful stacking; otherwise we might really seem to be filthy.
Roommate Liz and I haven't been home a whole awful lot in the past few weeks, and our apartment is slowly but surely turning into an opium den. I feel like we may need to hire a housekeeper, preferably one who is magic and sings.
We have remote controls everywhere, and yet none of them serves to turn on the television. Some of them don't seem to turn on anything at all.
There is a jar of laxative sitting on one of our living room chairs. How it got there or who felt the need "bring their own party," we will never know.
My plant is apparently trying to kill itself, despite my pencil-involving intervention attempts. The potting soil habit can be a truly cruel one.
And, perhaps most classily, we have garbage in our back hallway. Thank God for the careful stacking; otherwise we might really seem to be filthy.