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My Home Isn’t Messy, You’re Just Being An Uppity Bitch

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messy home

I think of myself as a pretty clean person. I wash my dishes every other day, pick stuff up off the floor if I notice it, and even clean my bathtub once in a blue moon. I vacuum my place every week and my walls aren’t covered in murals comprised of human shit, so all in all I think I’m doing pretty well — at least for a college kid. However, if you heard a female’s review of what it’s like to walk through my apartment, you’d think I’m running a manure farm out of here. No matter how fresh I make the place look, there is always something that I missed. Dust on top of the fridge or a condensation ring on the coffee table are freaked out about as if they’re a used condom sitting at the bottom of my Brita. Well quite frankly, ladies, I’m sick of your attempts to shame me for the tidiness of my home.

Your standards for neatness are fucking insane. Just because my apartment doesn’t regularly smell like I baked a cake full of Febreze Air Effects, loaded it onto a B-2 and dropped it into my living room does not make my home a post-apocalyptic backwater. I don’t need to hear passive aggressive shit like “the statistics of how often guys wash their sheets” or how I bought paper towels that leave little white flecks on the counter top as reminders that you think I’m about as capable at cleaning as Ryan Leaf was at being sober. I don’t give a shit. I sleep on the couch most of the time anyway because I’m usually too wrecked to make it the extra 20 feet to my bed, and I’d rather spend my money on fake cocaine than fucking Bounty. 

The criticism I have heard doesn’t just apply to the outward appearance of the apartment, it includes the way I do things in it as well. Yes, I drank out of the carton of orange juice. Yes, I drank out of the bottle of sweet tea. It doesn’t matter what thing you pull out of my fridge, I drank and/or ate directly out of it. I don’t understand the bitching. No one else lives in my place but me, so why would I put shit in cups or bowls? Have you ladies ever drank out of the carton? It’s fucking exhilarating. Plus if you’re in my apartment, the odds are pretty decent you have had other things that belong to me inside of you already, so anything you are afraid of catching, you already have.

Look, this shit has got to stop. I admit that I occasionally forget to wipe down the table after I finish eating, and I concede that I fail to put the Tostitos bag away in a sufficiently sealed manner that will maintain freshness. But those “missteps” don’t make me a lawless fucking cretin hell bent on dirtying the goddamn world. I’m just a normal guy who doesn’t own a Roomba I gave some dumbass name like Pickles or Luna that follows me around sucking up my messes like a robot slave. I have to do stuff the old fashioned way.

The solution here is pretty damn simple: just keep your critiques to yourselves. I don’t come over to your place and comment on how all the pictures on your shelves of you and your little make it look like your room is an exhibit in some kind of insane narcissistic museum or how your fuzzy toilet cover serves no fucking purpose because it’s on the top lid that no one sits on. So please, ladies: let’s keep the peace. Accept guy’s living spaces for what they are.

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Wooden hulled, three masted heavy frigate. Named by President George Washington.

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