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.