My place is a pigsty.
My mom would be so upset with me if she saw it right now. I get home from work and I just want to vegitate. I have no energy. I toss the mail here, my socks there, my work pants here… it’s starting to look like Fred Sanford’s place in here. I’m embarrased to bring tricks over, let alone a potential date. This is wreaking havoc on my sex life. What’s a bachelor to do?
I need a maid.
OK so maybe that’s lazy of me. Well, fine. I will completely own up to the fact that I AM LAZY. There, I said it.
But I’m also fairly poor and can’t really afford a maid.
I can hear you now: “Get up off your dead ass and clean.”
Yeah, yeah, in a minute.
“Now, Mister!“
Yes, Mom.
I just hate trudging out the vacuum cleaner and attempting to suck up all the cat hair on the sofa. Mopping is a bitch. (I hate hardwood floors.) I don’t have a dishwasher, so there’s always dishes to do. And you can forget about windows, because they’re replacing all the windows in my apartment building anyway.
But the thing I don’t understand is just how all this clutter happens? How do people keep it from accumulating? The thing that drives me the most nuts is the mail. I get so much SHIT that I can’t find enough places to put it anymore. Mail sucks.
I need a TLC Clean Sweep.
Rick's Launching Pad 