I think the pots and pans have spirits. I think they’re sentient beings, and they’re sad about being thrown out.
She came over to set up her workshop. She bought a silver polishing machine from China. No room in her place.
I have this mud room where I kept my air conditioners in winter. And two huge boxes of old papers and gifts. And a bookshelf I found in the trash in 2004 with dusty shoes I never wear in it, covered in spider webs. The cat’s litter box was there. The cat’s been dead eight months. He never shit inside to begin with. The litter box was for when he’d have to have surgery and stay in the house. I have never cleaned the mud room. I’d have gone to my grave never cleaning the mud room. I never clean anything. I feel bad disturbing the spiders.
I went in my cabinet for something. An earwig was displaced and crawled out. I read that earwigs nurture and protect their children. Not only can I not kill the earwig. But I can’t pick it up and place it outside. I can’t disrupt its life.
She came over and I moved everything out of the mud room. She crawled around and cleaned the walls with rubbing alcohol. It’s clean and empty now. She put a table in there. And the polisher arrived. It’s a big sheet metal box with a shelf in front. Its has a spindle on an electric motor. You screw a disc on it that has some abrasive material. Hold a silver ring against it while it spins. The silver turns beautiful and shiny. The disc is soft. It won’t fuck up your fingers if you touch it spinning. It’s cool.
Then she was acting weird and quiet. Obviously unhappy about something. And I had to draw it out of her. That she was disgusted by how I lived. My house, how filthy it was. Filled with trash and hideous chitinous creatures squeezing out slime and egg sacs.
I agree my house is repellent. And I’m repellent for having it. It’s just that I don’t care. No man cares about his home or cleanliness. I hate cleaning. I hate thinking about cleaning. I hate throwing things away.
I had to go through the boxes that were in the mud room to transfer everything to big tupperware bins she bought. That fit under my bed. On top was a binder of emails between me and my dead fiancee. Love letters we sent each other at work. A letter from my dead father. A letter from my ex girlfriend, who’s fine- I saw her Tuesday- but it was still emotional. I don’t want the past. I don’t want the future.
I like sitting here now typing, looking at green trees on the hillside.
Things used to suck. They’ll suck again. They’re good now. Let’s not fuck with it. Don’t want to think about what’s in the drawers. Light hating creatures eating the bits of skin and hair that fall off me.
I don’t want to lose her. But I don’t want to clean my house either.
Yet I want it to be clean. I want my shit to burn and blow away, and have nothing. Be like it was when I moved and had a futon on the carpet and got books from the library.
But people send you letters and they die.
She’d taken two adderalls by accident. She said she tried to pick up a fragment of a second pill with her tongue. Out of the mint tin where she keeps them. A whole one stuck to her tongue instead. She was cranked out of her mind. Climbed up my counter spraying caustic Mexican degreaser on top of the cabinet and swabbing it down. Ass crack eating her purple nylon shorts alluringly.
She made me throw out my pots and pans. That I found in the trash or at Goodwill 20 years ago.
It hurts cuz I think the pans have spirits, And they’re sad being thrown away. I think about them huddled in the trash can in the trash bag down the stairs waiting for the garbage truck on Monday. Reminisce about barbecue chicken I cooked in the Pyrex in Santa Cruz. How it made the place a home. When I go to the grocery store and select fruit, I think the piece I don’t pick is crying.
She’s not like this. She’s not a maniac. In the car, after we go to Home Goods to get new pots and pans, she tells me about her dad leaving her mom. Kicking the family out of their house. Making them live with their grandmother. They put all their furniture in one bedroom. My father was an alcoholic. My parents split up early, all kinds of weird shit happened. But they gave me unconditional love. I’m a maniac who thinks fruit has a soul. Her father’s cruel and abuses her to this day. She walks around smiling. She just doesn’t give a shit.
She’s kneeling. Scrubbing the cabinet that had my 20 pound bag of rice for TEOTWAWKI. She feels a sharp pinprick. A spider bit her. I ask was it a spindly one. She says no. A squat black spider.
It was a black widow. A black widow bit you, I tell her.
She’s completely placid.
I search black widow bite reddit. Read about men in spastic agony wishing for death. Deep in the comments some voice of reason says most black widows give dry warning bites. They don’t want to expend energy to make venom. I read all this to her.
It’s probably a warning bite, she says.
I’m thinking about holding her hand while she seizes from the neurotoxin.
Because I let the spiders live. Because she had to clean my filthy house.
Nothing happens. We go to Home Goods to get new pots and pans. It’s like Goodwill with new things. Pillows with horses. Big carved wood letters that say BREATHE. We select stainless steel cookware. After fifteen minutes I can’t process housewares anymore. I want to get out.
We’re looking at oven mitts. There’s a white one shaped like a muppet’s mouth with chickens in a farmyard on it. We look at dish racks. I like the look of a folding bamboo rack. She disagrees. It’s too large for the amount of dishes I have. Which is true.
We wrestle in the aisles. We watch a beautiful golden-pink beetle climb up the wall.
delicioustacos 
you want a gf until you finally get one and she turns out to be a huge pain in the ass. unless you’re this guy, he’s got the best gf:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fYmlP06MbtE
>I don’t want to lose her. But I don’t want to clean my house either.
just clean your filthy insect-infested hovel you stupid cheap j3w
Dread game. Tell her if she doesn’t like your insect frens she can pack her shit and leave. Toss her an IKEA blue bag. Disagree and amplify. Invite even more bugs into your house. Arachnids. Buy a tarantula. Name it Quentin and let it roam free. Grow more plants that attract bees, butterflies, ladybugs. There is no reason you should have a clean, boring, sterile, soulless post-modern house. It should be a living, breathing, terrarium. It should be crisp and cool, seasonal and humid, brimming with life, like the garden center at Home Depot. You should have fish and birds, bunnies, cute woodland critters padding across your living room floor. Your home interior should look like the Parrish mansion from Jumanji (1995) after they start playing the game. Life is a wild game, a grand mystery. Or it can be a boring monotonous chore involving trips to fricken Home Goods.
BANG Poland, chapter 2 page 45…fuck 20 other women. Even better if they have a tattoo of an anthropod on their body. Scorpion. Butterfly tatt is even betterer. Have your phone constantly on Airplane Mode with the voice message recording done by a sexy British woman. Never pick up your phone, only text. Wear sunglasses at all times and listen to music. The world revolves around YOU. You are the main character. The only pics of yourself should be you exiting a jet airplane or sports car. You are the rockstar. You are the pussy zen master. You are the sun and women are the moons. You smoke cigars. You lift weights. You crush it in financial markets. You are…THE MAN.
stfu lmao
can you stop pussyfooting around about INSECTS and SILVER POLISHING machines, and just go on the sam hyde + nick rockfort podcast already???? no one buys this nice guy act and it’s becoming quite grating actually. yeah yeah i like the way they pronounce PUSSY and furthermore you’re clearly acquainted with them. sam mentioned your twitter a while ago. just go on the fricken podcast, it’s a perfect fit. if someone were to draw a vendiagram between their audience and yours it would be two perfectly overlapping circles. if you go on their “pod” i’ll finna sign up to your dumbass substack. i’ll also join their cumroad as well. that’s a full TENNER secured and fully backt. let’s fricken gooooo
(no i’m not trying to tell you what to do)
(no this is not advice just an obnoxious request)
(sam & nick are just 1 degree separation from JOE ROGAN and JOE shook the hand of Former President Trump so this is an enormous opprtunity. if tDrumpf gets back in the wh*toidhouse, you could become his Secretary of SNATCH)
tacos is too cheap to fly to chode island unless a family member has kicked the bucket. he’s counting each cent like scrooge mcduck. he also doesn’t want to reveal his face, a problem that is easily solved in today’s tech-heavy world. at most he’ll do a zoom call like a good little neoliberal. dt complains about not farming enough money from his simps despite plenty of opportunities and networks that are open to him. he’s the monkey sitting in his cage after it’s clear the cage is unlocked and the zookeepers are long gone. he’s an Untermensch larping as the opposite. to be fair, that’s pretty smart. conserve energy. self-aggrandize. when weak, appear strong.
sadly, DEETEE ain’t got the joie de vivre to take such risks. he would much rather fester in his current state of affairs, maintain the status quo. safe. like swimming with floaties on in a swimming pool. LULZ :^)
bro you gotta join TruthSocial.
stop ridin with biden, that’s a sinking ship.
Frenly reminder that it is SUMMER and that you should go outside and enjoy LIFE, because for all we know this might be our only shot at LIVING.
You’re a stupid domesticated loser. Navel gazing and doing nothing else.
I’m really happy you met someone!! Bright days for the brilliant dude 🙂