May I begin by stating the potentially obvious: I am not a clean person. Take, for example, my kitchen. Or rather, don’t take it. You don’t want to be involved in anything to do with my kitchen. It is gross. I spent hours washing dishes last night, and I am not done.
Or perhaps you might peruse my bedroom. It’s a mess. My boyfriend keeps going on about how I am never going to fit all of my things in anyone’s basement (which is the plan, because I don’t want to pay for storage space). I think he is perhaps correct, so I’ve been attempting to look critically at my clothing items, currently scattered every which where, and decide what I should try to sell or give away. It is a thankless task.
Or one could cast an eye to my living room (floor scattered with papers and other sundries, among them currently a bagpipe) or my rather tiny bathroom, currently speckled with mold because it just does that and I don’t feel like climbing up on the sink to scrub the cieling yet again. But scrub I must. All must be spotless, for soon my lovely and beloved, cozy and cluttered apartment will be invaded by prospective inhabitants.
Too bad I am not naturally of the cleanly nature.