My inbox was filled last week with angry, smart e-mails about how I should not casually refer to deadly diseases in a joking manner.
Point duly noted folks. I’m sorry.
Occasionally I accidentally leave my political correctness in yesterday’s underoos, but I swear to you, dear readers, I will heretofore and ever after attempt never to refer to a nasty virus as “the hiv” again.
I am certain I can come up with a more accurate and less offensive term.
How about next time I’m that seriously ill, I just say I have “projectilingfromtwomajororaficesatonceosis” or maybe “pukarrehia?”
Gee, I hope none of you were eating.
Speaking of eating, I love food. I mean LOVE food.
If you’ve ever seen me, you could probably discern this love from the constant stain on my shirt from my most recent meal.
My rotund proportions, or “Reubenesque beauty” if you prefer, probably also would disclose my secret love for the grubbage.
Anyway, I didn’t realize how much I enjoy eating until I took a rough inventory of the massive amounts of garbage in my car.
A five-minute glance revealed food containers of all shapes, sizes and levels of emptiness, cups, bottles, wrappers, a partially mangled piece of pineapple pizza, a really battered grapefruit, half an everything bagel, a few dozen french fries, a box of Peanut Butter Crunch cereal, some crackers and two pickles.
OK, maybe this revelation is actually about the inhuman level of filth in which I choose to live.
If the Center for Disease Control checked out my car right now, they’d wear the Ebola suits.
(Oh dear, it seems I’ve used the name of a deadly virus in a joking manner. Bad, bad Cuffist.)
My apartment isn’t much better, but the nastiness is spread over a larger area than it is in my two-door Accord.
The greater area gives the illusion of a few clean square feet in each room.
I know you’re all thinking, “How, dear Rebekah, can you stand living in this disgusting state of affairs?”
It’s simple folks; I grubby everything up until I can’t bear it anymore or I can’t see over the filth — whichever comes first.
In the meantime, I fake apologies to cleaner folk that must enter my property and secretly snigger at their looks of disgust and disapproval.
See, having a dirty car is a foolproof theft-deterrent system. And, would you want to serial kill a chick with laundry strewn all over her bedroom floor?
Laugh at my grubbiness. Disapprove as you will. Be disgusted, for heaven’s sake.
I know I’ll have a car in the morning, and if I get hungry, a perfectly healthy box of Peanut Butter Crunch.