Wednesday, May 30, 2007

A key to a room of your own and a mind without end

It's mornings like this one that make me wish I was a writer, holed up in my room alone. Of course, given my current mental state, I'd probably be Virginia Woolf. Fine! I'd have a place in London, a summer place in the country, and some serious mood swings. Not so very different from what I have now, except, you know, TWO PLACES, both in ENGLAND. And of course actual talent and acclaim.

Contrast my current situation where room number ONE harbors a man who smells like the garbage. Not just the regular garbage, but the stuff you forgot to put out, so it ruminated for a week. That stuff. Nice enough guy, but why? One reason is he's obviously not washed his hair for weeks. Let me amend that. He's obviously not washed his combover for weeks. Oh, and he's got long, matted back hair.

In room TWO resides an evangelical preacher, impeccably coiffured and dressed to the nines. He's been speaking excitedly for months now about the jet he's buying.

I don't know which I loathe more.


freakgirl said...

I vote for the jet-setting preacher. Man #1 can cleanse his body, but Man #2 will never be able to cleanse his SOUL.

Bluebunny said...

I second Freakgirl's vote for the exact reason stated.

Michael said...

Hard to argue, dolls, but bear with me here.

Room ONE: I need you to imagine your actual hands entangled in sweaty, matted back hair that leaves them with residual sticky.

Room TWO: You exit the room with the hairs on your neck standing up from the evil, but you smell like Gucci Pour Homme 2.

Get back to me. ;-)

freakgirl said...

Wear some gloves, ew! ;)

Bluebunny said...

You can always scour your hands in bleach.

Michael said...

But the residual stain of a brush with evangelism isn't so easy to remove, is it?

You've convinced me.

freakgirl said...