Last post was only my 97th post.
I'm heading back to kindergarten so that I can learn to count and hop on one foot.
I was also pleasantly informed that my supposed celebratory '100th post' was a Debbie-downer. I thought I was just being my slightly pessimistic normal self but apparently not.
So, sorry for that, I'll try to keep this post full of sunshine, rainbows and unicorn poop.
I thought of titling it 'White Trash', considering I plan to write about garbage and I can't count worth a flying pitchfork, but that didn't exude quite the amount of sugar and fairy dust that I am going for.
Katerina Cupcake needs to see my happy blog face, gosh dang it.
So just pretend I'm dancing around, patting small children on the head and blowing bubbles while you're reading this; then we should be good to go.
Something I've noticed of late is that I'm rather OCD when it comes to picking up garbage. (Me?... OCD?... Crazy, right?)
Regardless of what bathroom I'm in, if (by the time I leave) there are still small pieces of paper towel left on the floor, well... let's put it this way. I don't leave until there is nothing left on the floor.
Same goes with spilled soap on the counter or black hairs in the sink. They're gone when I'm gone, baby.
I don't know what it is, but something deep down inside me can't handle the thought of leaving garbage untouched two-feet from the trashcan. My shoulder devil wants to murder whoever so carelessly, and lazily I might add, dropped it there in the first place while my shoulder angel wants crawl around on all fours to make sure everything is tidy for the next bathroom customer.
I'm sure several of you (*cough* mom) are writhing in agony at the thought of all those germs I'm exposing myself to, but may I point out that all of the germ-a-phobes I am in acquaintance with are mothers to at least 5 children. Children are bio-hazards waiting to happen. Point proven.
But I'm sorry to say that the fetish doesn't end there.
I'm starting to find myself picking up old receipts stuck in the fence on my way to work, stale Cheerios on the chapel floor and, dare I say it, used tissues on a park bench.
I need serious help.
So, combining that and my apparent lack of counting skills,
looks like I'm becoming a janitor.
3 comments:
Have you ever thought of getting a dog. Then you could spray the entire bathroom with beef broth and the dog could just lick it all clean!(after you had brushed his teeth and made him gargle with bleach, of course)
How about a tiny, black, loveable chihuahua? Eh? Eh?
There are so many things I could say in response and yet, none of them quite cut it...
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