Dirt, Cheap?

I clean.


Big deal, right?


Maybe you don't understand.


I CLEAN.


It wasn't always an obsession, a war, if you will, against dirt. At one time, I really didn't care about the matter, or more precisely, I ignored it because everyone else in my family was so obsessed with it. Ignoring it was my of telling them to F off.


It's not like you have to go out of your way to be messy. Just don't do anything, and watch dirt slowly, but surely, take over. Dust wisps in, coating every surface. Grime permeates shower tiles so subtly you hardly notice the build-up. Floors, once smooth and slick on your bare feet, become course and grimy.


My room growing up was deplorable. Mold grew freely, green patches formed like lily pads on all my wooden furniture. Discarded food crusted, molded, then crumbled to dust before ever being acknowledged. One of our eight cats frequently pissed under my desk, he wasn't neutered.


There were two spots that I kept clean, or at least free of clutter, my bed, and my porn collection, which was stored high lest the cat desire some reading material to shit on. In drunken stupors, I'd lie in filth, face down, careless.


Given the fact that she screamed about it constantly, I can only surmise that Mom saw Satan in dirt. She hunted it like a marksman, paling in comparison to her mother, who'd move all the furniture just to give the room a rim job.


But then...something happened. Dirt bothered me. I noticed it. Everywhere. The first time I cleaned a hardwood floor I stood over it, unconvinced the mop picked up all the dirt. I knelt with towel in hand, and wiped up my arch enemy, glaring at my mop the same way one looks upon a traitor.


Once I moved into my own place, things went from bad to worse. I worked long hours to make it on my own. Sunday I scoured. Monday I relaxed. Tuesday, dirt's assault began, showing up in the corners, random dustbunnies scampered across the floor. Wednesday, I'd clean. Friday. Sunday. Random spot checks on non-essential cleaning days. God forbid someone invited me out. I'd have declined, knowing full well dirt loves an empty house.


My therapist calls the behavior a neurotic loyalty to Mom. He must live in filth. Dirt and I have reached an understanding. It accumulates. Sometimes I let it, others I don't. It's hard to keep up an obsession, especially when you live with people who don't seem as offended by dirt's existence. It's not that Rachel is a slob, she just has better things to do. It's ironic how I've spent a good deal of my life trying to combat the very thing I'll be buried in when I pass.


Unless I'm cremated and mixed into a vat of 409.


Get my lawyer on the phone. Time to change my will.