I need my space to vent. And since direct confrontation, as is my usual wont, would probably make me seem awfully petty - not to mention forever destroy all semblance of household harmony in Netherfield, I have decided to release my pent-up frustration in the most civilized manner possible by writing about it.
Otherwise I'd probably slide remorselessly into a vengeful psychotic break again. Since it's been a while, I might be due.
Let's start by clarifying the prickly situation. Honestly I'm far from the neatest freak around - that dubious title probably belongs to my fastidious mother - but I do like having my things in the correct place / angle / lighting etc. Certainly borders on a fanatical obsession but I try my best not to draw any unfortunate victims into my maniacal web of methodical madness.
Paul : Don't mention what we talked about earlier.
Felix : Mention what?
Paul : Good God. You've forgotten it, haven't you!
Felix : Forgotten what?
Kat : Were you talking about me?
Ostensibly the living space in Netherfield is shared by all three of us - namely Felix, Kat and me - but since Felix frequently escapes into hibernation in his hedonistic den, the place is ordinarily shared by Kool Kat and me. Generally whatever messes made downstairs are cleared up by our friendly neighbourhood cleaning service, our madly misunderstood Maid Mumbles.
But when Maid Mumbles calls in sick, the salons and dining rooms of Netherfield immediately fall into a sad state of decrepitude - with Kat refusing to lend a dainty finger to help. Even worse Kat contributes to the littered chaos by leaving little messes all over the place in hidden alcoves for me to find.
Paul : WTF.
Felix : You found another pile of used tissues again?
Paul : It's like a treasure trail of trash!
Felix : Well, it's her way of communicating.
Paul : By leaving litter for me to pick up behind couches, doors and fridges?
Felix : She knows you like a challenge.
Paul : Why can't she keep the place as clean as her bedroom?
Felix : She's a selective mess.
Paul : You're not helping.
Look, no one's expected to live up to my anal-retentive obsessive compulsive kinda cleanliness! Charming Calvin will attest to the fact that I've never compelled him to reorganize his kitchen utensils according to colour and size, no matter how badly I'm dying to do so. Don't even expect Felix to fluff the sadly crushed ornamental pillows on the couch just the way I like 'em.
But here's the catch! Kool Kat's even more of a stickler for neatness than I am. In fact her personal boudoir is decidedly above reproach - all spick, span and spotless with nothing out of place, even her frightened sheets have been cowed into remaining wrinkle-free!
Yet Kat's terrifying tsunami of trash leaves the rest of the house in disordered smithereens. So why the preferential treatment? Is it possible that Kat holds some deep-seated prejudice against the living area due to the fact that she doesn't have an acute sense of belonging? Does she mistakenly presume that I've incorporated stray leaves, tossed notes and used tissues into the interior decor of Netherfield?
And my childish rant is over.
No, I'm not going to confront Kool Kat about her preferential treatment. Zen I will be, tolerate it I shall. No doubt I have my fair share of incomprehensible idiosyncrasies eating away at her nerves as well! Till then I shall hope my maid clears away the trash before I stumble over them.