OK, I will admit it. I'm not the tidiest person alive. In fact, I'm the messiest person in my house. I will endeavour to go further to say that in fact, I'm the messiest person to live in any house I've lived in. First there was Uni flat no. 1, where poor Hanna was forever stepping over my washing and sorting through my kitchen mess to find herself a cup that only sported a small tuft of mould. Then came Bread and Cassie, who took me under their uni wings when I moved to Foch Street with them.
More fool them, I say.
I was a mess. Well, I did wash, it's not like I was one of those smelly uni students. Promise.
Then last year Bread and I moved into another flat. Throughout those three years it can be rightfully said that I only made my bed eleven times. Once each, when I moved into each respective residence, and the rest usually when there was a house inspection coming my way. I will not even attempt to upset your stomachs with the amount of times i changed my sheets.
These unsavoury characteristics of my phyche have followed me to this day. I hereby present to you, good fellows, my room.
Please, don't be hurtful. I'm really a nice person when you push aside all that stuff. I'm just a little…cluttered at present.
The dog made this mess. That's not mine. Really. Look at him, presiding over my room. On my pillow. Why I oughta…