Okay, so my tipping point is that I can no longer clean my house by hiding things under other things and this is a great disappointment to me, because that's really a lot less work than actual cleaning but I'm getting to a point where soon all my possessions will just be in two monolithic piles in my living room. And I don't even know what would happen if you tried to make two monoliths next to one another, because by definition there can be only one, so it's pretty much Highlander in my living room, and in one pile is porn, and cds, and DVDs, and lotions, and nail clippings, and a sports bra, and in the other there is porn, and unpaid bills, and the remnants of a pillow fort, and a bunch of sandwich crusts. And the first monolith to cut off the head of the other one will gain all it's power and that was pretty much the coolest movie ever, because it's not very often you have Sean Connery getting decapitated in movies anymore. Also I think there were boobies, but I could be mistaken. In my mind there are always boobies. I'm pretty sure there was a close-up of a just-showered nipple in Bambi. It's like my fatal flaw that I always think there were boobies. One day a super-villian will have me tied up with ropes and a giant magnifying glass will be about to burn me up with the sun's deadly rays and he'll be all " Hahahaha! You can escape if you just tell me what was in the other room back there." and I'll be all "Boobies?" and then he'll laugh and fly away on a jetpack and I'll be left to my own devices to secure my own escape. Which I will, of course, but that's hardly the point.
I just looked up and realized I was still typing that whole time and not just thinking. So that last paragraph pretty much just won me a Pulitzer. Even I don't know what I'm talking about. At least it came back to breasts. That's my comfort zone.
Anyway(s), now I have to go through and sort out all my piles of stuff and I have to lift things and hope nothing too gross is underneath and I don't know what I'm afraid of, but I'm at least 50% sure that I'm going to lift a Calvin And Hobbes Anthology and eels are going to come pouring out of a juice glass I forgot about and bite me in my face. And it's not like I would knowingly let eels into my house, but those fuckers are wily and maybe one of the kids answered the door and thought "That's a cute snake! Look! It's smiling at me!" and let it in and then POW! Eels. In my unwashed juice glasses that smell like a martini that's gone over to the dark side, and in my dirty laundry that smells just a little too much like a night of sex and debauchery which would be impossible without using a time machine or a very strong imagination, so pretty much the laundry is just gross and I'm pretending it smells like sex when really it just smells like feet and ketchup stains. And now eels.
Debauchery is an awesome word. I need to start using it more. Like at the grocery store I could be all "I want to buy a box of debauchery, where should I look?" and then the stupid kid in the smock will be all "Huh?" and then I'll get all up in his grill and yell "Quid Pro Quo?!" and then flash a gang sign and run away. I like leaving people with a story to tell.