I’m in Federal Way now, which, for those who are curious, is NOT Seattle, as I so inconsiderately claimed. I only said that because I love you and I want the best for you, and I couldn’t bear to trouble your wee head. Mostly, I said it because saying “I’m moving to Seattle” is a hell of a lot easier than saying “I’m moving to Federal Way”. No, not the street in Boise that goes up near Micron. Federal Way the city. The suburb of Seattle. You see how difficult that is? YOU RUIN MY LIFE WITH YOUR QUESTIONS.
Just kidding. I love you?
Life is pretty great right now. My condo is unbelievably beautiful. Every morning when I wake up, I can’t believe it’s mine. It’s so beautiful, in fact, that I am able to forgive it for the unbelievable, never-ending clutter it emanates. Really, it’s more like projectile vomit, spilling from the guts of every room, than an emanation.
The walls are blue-grey and a gentle rusty red, and because of those walls, I forgave it for making me cry when I opened the pantry door to find dozens of dusty pots and pans intermingled with various foodstuffs and EMPTY BOTTLES OF CLEANER. I cannot emphasise enough just how devestatingly awful it is to find empty, used-up bottles of cleaning supplies. DEAD CLEANING SUPPLIES. CLUTTERING MY PANTRY. If you cannot understand the horror of this, congratulations: you apparently lead a normal, sane, life as a functional adult.
Go away.
You’re making me look bad.
I can forgive the condo its rampant clutter because every wall has pictures my grandmother painted, and they’re beautiful, and perfect, and my heart skips a beat every time I see them. Like the one of the “Wind sisters” riding through the darkness, and the one that looks like a Spanish mansion, but was actually painted in Boston. I can’t wait to take pictures of everything to show you. For now, you’ll just have to believe me that it’s amazing. I live in an art gallery.
I can forgive it the fact that there’s no bed and so I’m sleeping on the couch right now, because when I wake up in the morning the first things I see out the window are three huge, old trees: a cedar and two douglas firs. These trees are older than I am, wiser than I am, and have weathered more storms, and I find that immeasurably comforting. They remind me that I am blessed, and I will endure.
Today I also had to forgive myself for getting out a tape measure to arrange my books and candles on the shelf above the fireplace. Because arranging everything to be equidistant and accurate within 1/4 inch was less time consuming than sitting on the floor crying that a candle looked off center. Have I mentioned lately that I’m crazy? Yeah, I’M FUCKING INSANE. My latent organisational impulses were stifled for far too long after living with roommates and they are here again in full force. Everything must be organised and scrubbed, arranged and re-arranged, and I’m absolutely brutal about throwing things out, or putting them in the Yard Sale pile. Thankfully, the tears have been minimal and progress has been made.
Oh, and since you might have missed this in the last paragraph because you were overwhelmed by all the Crazy: I HAVE A FIREPLACE. It burns real wood. Or fake wood, given enough gasoline. IF YOU HAVE AN ERECTION LASTING MORE THAN FOUR HOURS, PLEASE CALL ME. I need wood.
Also, and this is even more important than the fireplace, so it will be bolded and italicised (but not underlined, because that would just be crazy): I HAVE A DISHWASHER. Did I ever tell you about the time I calculated that I had spent over three solid days of my life doing nothing but washing dishes? Did I tell you that that was over a period of less than six months, and since then I have washed many, many more hours of my life down the drain? There really is no way to describe the psychological damage done to me in the Barry Patch dishwashing days. Days which shall be burned in my mind for all eternity. Days of ever-multiplying piles and piles of dishes. I used to do dishes for fun when I went to friends’ houses, because I liked seeing them when they were all sparkly clean. Now I’m pretty sure that I’ll be washing dishes in Hell, and if that doesn’t scare me onto the straight and narrow I’m not sure what will.
So today when I noticed the dishwasher for the first time (I’m pretty sure I just didn’t see it before because it was too good to be true), I laughed out loud, and then I cried, because it was too beautiful, and then I wrote a twitter about my dishwasher-induced orgasm. I didn’t really have an orgasm. I had a spiritual awakening, which in my confused and euphoric state I called an orgasm, for lack of a better term. In reality, I saw Jesus, seated at the right hand of the Father, and a whole lot of angels, singing for my newly redeemed soul. They were so excited I couldn’t bring myself to tell them that I actually gave my soul to General Electric, the manufacturer of my very own dishwasher.
MY VERY OWN DISHWASHER!!!
If you tell me that Jesus loves me, I might actually believe it now. Any God who giveth dishwashers can’t be all bad.
