From Pathetic Life #5
Thursday, October 6, 1994On the first page of every issue, under the big words Pathetic Life, the subhead says “Diary of a fat slob.” I’ve written about being fat, but not much about being a slob, so clear yesterday’s dinner and dead roaches off the chair and have a seat.
Cleanliness is not next to godliness. It’s next to stupidity, because beyond washing the plates now and then to avoid botulism, cleanliness serves no useful purpose.Personal hygiene matters … some. The appearance of personal hygiene matters more, and I do play that game. When I’m at the office or going to the movies, I make myself neat and presentable. My goal is to not be noticed, so I don’t want to look or smell like I’m homeless. But c’mon, there’s no need to be fanatical about it.I shower as often as necessary to smell OK and not feel too sticky. In the summer months, that might be every second or third day. In the winter months, twice a week. Showering more often than that is excessive. What’s the point, really? Who are you trying to impress, with your ‘showering every morning’ like fancy people? There are only three valid reasons to tidy up: ① Safety — by golly yes, clean up anything that’s a safety or health concern to you or those you live with. It’s the botulism example, above, or loose knives on a low shelf if you have children, etc. Common sense!
② Appearance — You and your home (if anyone sees it) should be as neat as needed to prevent friends or strangers from calling 9-1-1, or from having any concern about your mental health.③ You want to — Beyond safety and appearance, “wanting to” is the only valid reason to vacuum the carpet, wash the windows, or take an unnecessary shower.I don’t want to, so I don’t.
A half-finished can of soda sits on my window sill. Should it be
promptly cleared away so it doesn’t attract bugs and get all moldy? No.
It’s diet soda — no sugar, and there’s nothing in it that’ll rot or
attract bugs, so I’m leaving that can right where it is. I might drink
the rest of it a week from Sunday.Before leaving home, I do a hand-over-the-mouth bad breath
inspection, and if it stinks too strong, I’ll brush my teeth. At work I sniff my arm-pits occasionally, and if it’s too gawdawful I’ll give the pits a
quick soap-down in the men’s room, or spread some deodorant. Here in the hotel, the dishes stay stacked in
the sink for a few weeks until I’m in a dish-washing mood. Until then, I’ll wash one plate and one fork when
it’s needed for a meal.It’s the same sink I piss into at night, so you’ll
correctly surmise that I’ve urinated on the dishes and silverware, many
times. It doesn’t matter, long as the dishes are washed before dining.
This room is my little fiefdom, a land where cleanliness is cheerfully forgotten. There are dead gnats on the refrigerator shelves, but they’re not in the milk so there no urgent need to wipe them away. Zines and books get stacked haphazard on top of each other, and I’ll make a slight effort toward organizing the piles only after they’ve toppled. Coat hangers are unnecessary; instead I’ve driven 27 nails into the wall, and my pants and shirts, underwear and T’s and keys are draped over the nails. Let’s talk about those clothes. I sit in an office chair all day. I’m not an auto mechanic, there’s no grease or grime, so my shirts and pants don’t get stinky. There’s therefore no need to do the laundry often, and I don’t. After wearing clothes, they go back to the nails on the wall, to be worn again in a few days. When the underwear gets smelly or itchy I spray it with Lysol, or hand wash it in the sink with the dishes. Everything is laundered eventually, but not until the clothes get uncomfortably stiff or stink.There’s maid service here, which is unusual for a residential hotel.
Once a week some lady who speaks no English (or fakes it for me) comes
in with stained but clean sheets and towels. She doesn’t even put the sheets on, but she takes last week’s sheets and towels away. That’s all
she does — no cleaning or vacuuming, no plastic-wrapped cup at the sink,
no mints on my pillow — but knowing she’s coming once weekly is motivation for me to
pick up enough of the mess that she can get in the door. That’s why this
room is neater than my rooms anywhere else I’ve lived, especially on
Tuesdays.Back at my previous rez hotel, with no maid and no
reason to clear the clutter unless something started to stink, that
place got scary messy, even for me. When I moved out of that dump to come to
this dump, I had to carry out a dozen Hefty bags full of old newspapers and
tin cans and Hostess Ding Dong wrappers and everything else. It was piled
taller than me, in the corner where the trash can was buried.
I’m OK co-existing with the roaches and other crawling things, but flying bugs get in my hair and on my nerves, so there’s always a Shell No-Pest Strip dangling from the light fixture. From years of experience, I know what kinds of trash attract bugs, and I’m lackadaisically fastidious about not letting that trash accumulate. Some of the non-moist and non-food trash, though, has been in this room as long as I have.Some weeks ago, maybe a month, as I was sitting and typing and eating a second lunch, a splash of tuna fell out of my sandwich and landed on the rug. I was in the middle of banging out an enjoyable paragraph, so I resolved to pick it up later, but forgot about it instead. Now the tuna is gone, along with about one square inch of the rug. There’s a hole where the tuna was, and you can see straight through to the floorboards. This building has very industrious roaches.Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like hovel.Obviously, hypothetically, if someone came along who made it worthwhile to tidy up, brush my teeth three times a day, and all that tedium, I would cheerfully do it. I’d do the laundry weekly, shower daily, even change my underwear — for her. For me, though, I ain’t doing diddlysquat. I am wearing yesterbritches and taking the trash out once monthly. It’s only my own damn business how messy me and my mess are, and if you don’t want to see it, that’s great, you’re not invited.♦ ♦ ♦
Beatrice canceled out on the beers. Something about picking up a relative at the airport. I’m a little relieved, to be honest, but we’ll reschedule.
This
is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago,
called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but
might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting
things, so parental guidance is advised.
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