F*%k That Friday: On the Homefront

Once again, it's F*%k That Friday, in which I take to the internets to complain about things that have pissed me off of late. Based on that definition, by the way, my friends would tell you every day is F*%k That Friday for me. You know what? F*%k those guys! In any event, here's what I hate today:


The frequency with which I must clean my apartment: I don't mind cleaning; I actually find it sort of enjoyable, and the payoff is totally worth it. But holy shit do indeed to do it often. My apartment is three rooms: a bedroom, a living room slash kitchen slash place where I eat my dinner off of a coffee table, and a bathroom (that manse also costs $1600. Which reminds me: people who don't live in New York and complain about rent? F*%k That!). 

"World Headquarters of Will Run For Beer" didn't fit in that little space on the mailbox

How could so many dust bunnies and strands of hair possible accumulate in such a small space?  And more importantly, how do they get there so quickly?  I asked my mom once why I always seemed to have dust bunnies in my apartment, and we never had any in our house growing up.  She told me it was because growing up, we had a cleaning lady come weekly to get rid of them. (Which reminds me: Not being rich now that I'm responsible for my own bills? F*%k That!  It also reminds me of the clip below, which is my parents' favorite episode of the Cosby Show.  Fast forward to 1:50 for the takeaway lesson that was instilled upon my sister and I as a result of it)

 

Anyway, I don't have a cleaning lady who comes to my apartment, which means I have to do it myself.  It feels like I've only just put away the vacuum (in the closet where I found the cockroach.  F*%k That!) when I find more crumbs and pine needles and those little t-shaped plastic things that hold tags on clothes.  Worst of all, I have a rug in the living room slash kitchen slash place where I eat my dinner off a coffee table, that is made of sisal.  For those not in the know, sisal is defined as "natural fiber that is effing impossible to vacuum without first hunting down the brush attachment for the vacuum cleaner, and then getting on your hands and knees and vacuuming the same spot repeatedly for 10 minutes until both you and the vacuum overheat."  I think I read that in the fine print in the Pottery Barn catalog. As you might imagine, it's not something I care to do often, and yet, weekly, there I am, sweating on my hands and knees with that electric beast beside me (I'm not even sure if I'm still talking about cleaning my apartment anymore...)

In conclusion, to the frequency with which I have to clean my apartment, I say: F*%k That!

Happy Friday, kids!