Dishes and Shite

I hate doing the dishes. I would rather lick windows clean. I will quite happily do your laundry, but I really really hate doing the dishes. You go looking through the house for dishes, think that you have them all, finish the load, turn around and a bowl and spoon have beamed down from god knows where, just to give you the shits. This is also the very reason why, when I was living on my own in Sydney, I survived on a diet of vegemite toast. Or for a change it was peanut butter and very rarely, raspberry jam or honey. I ate over the sink, so I didn’t have to use a plate, or I ate off paper towels. Those paper towels were a godsend; I buttered and slathered my toast on it, ate off it then threw the bugger out. No mess, no fuss. Some weeks I would use every dish in the house and refuse to do the dishes, and when i gave myself the shits (or bribed myself, whichever came first) cause I hadn’t washed up, I would load everything up in the shower cubicle and shower the dishes with a crapload of dishwash liquid and clean them that way. God, I lived like a bachelor in those days. It is a complete fallacy that women are the clean freaks in houses. The only think that I am pedantic about is the toilet bowl. I am like a nazi when it comes to the toilet bowl. The rest of the house can go shit, but the toilet bowl has to be pristine. Why? I hate throwing up at the best of times, and when I stick my head down the porcelain telephone, I DO NOT want to be staring into skid marks on the inner bowl. I am already throwing my guts up; I don’t want to be there any longer than I have to. My stomach is in turmoil and looking at the grottiness of the toilet make me heave up more.