My apartment tends to exist in a constant state of messiness. Every time I try to figure out why the domicile can't stay out of pig-sty zone for more than a day at a time, I can only come up with one answer. It's not "my" apartment after all. It's "ours". There are, in fact, six of us currently living in my tiny little flat. Six college-aged girls: three in school, two with boyfriends, all with jobs. We're all far too busy to clean up anyone's messes but our own. And whenever anything is messy, it is definitely anyone's mess but my own. Crumbs all over the counter? Well, I'm always careful when I eat, so they couldn't possibly be mine. Let the perpetrator wipe them up Dishes in the sink? Why can't those silly roommates of mine take the time to wash their cereal bowls? Trash needs to be taken out? I can't believe they'd let it overflow like that! Notice a pattern? Nothing is ever, ever my fault. And I have a f...
“I want to feel all there is to feel, he thought. Let me feel tired, now, let me feel tired. I mustn't forget, I'm alive, I know I'm alive, I mustn't forget it tonight or tomorrow or the day after that.” --Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine