It has just recently come to my attention that I might be a little bit psycho. My sister told me. And she is the very honest and sincere type, the kind who will think for a long while about how to phrase her answer properly when you call to ask if she's been outside yet this morning and if so, can she tell you if you need a coat.
Apparently, the reason for my thought-out diagnosis is the fact that I always think that my apartment is dingy. As in, dirty. As in, I just cleaned everything and the whole 76 square meters smells like a veritable potpourri of various bleaches but I KNOW--and have known since childhood--that I left a pair of dirty underwear somewhere.
And not only that, but I will not be the one to find it, no. Someone else will. A guest. Maybe the regal woman who lives up two flights. She will knock at my door to remind me that I did not pay building maintenance, I will slap my head and stammer in tooth-rotting Hebrew that it's the First of the Month! Again! I thought that it only comes around a few times a year! But this is like, every MONTH! If not more often! I will then run to the safe to pretend that there is money inside that I am looking for.
Waiting calmly at the door for me to come back and same, erm, IhavemoneybutitisamericandollarsIneedtochangeitcanIcomeovertomorrow? (we do this every month) her eyes will stray to Coco-pop trying to crawl past her out the door and head to the Landing Of Plunging Death. She will pick up Coco-pop, who will be annoyed that we did not let her see if she really has wings growing out of her dimpled shoulders (she just might. she is delicious. she is a coco-pop.) and bring her into the living room in howling protest. Then, she will see it. A pair of dirty underwear.
My imagination gets a little hazy at this point, but I know that it will happen. And that it will be humiliating and horrifying. And no one will talk to me again. Or something like that. Maybe they will talk, but they will also giggle. Behind their hands. Copiously.
I'm thinking of actually leaving a pair in the middle of the room and taking it from there. Sort of like locking a claustrophobic person in a closet and coming back for him an hour later. A dark closet, with snakes in it, maybe. And a pair of dirty underwear on the floor.