Clutter

Well now, my piles of disorder, abandoned willy nilly in the corners, pantries and the alcoves here at the ol’ hacienda, do not whisper like yours do apparently. They shout. They shout in a decidedly smarmy, acid tone and they’re loud loud. They shout, “Hey stupid! Hey you lazy nimrod dumbass. How ‘bout gettin’ all this shit categorized or something. Jesus R. Christ, what the fuck’s wrong with you?” To where I have to make a run for it to my closest, darkest gin mill, that stinks of stale beer and termites - maybe you’ve been there? - and sit on my usual stool, the one with the duct taped tear in the vinyl, at the dark end of the bar and knock back my usuals. My hands shake so much I spill most of my drink on my pants, shirt, or sweater, jacket or tie, whichever cost the most Then I tiptoe in in the dark {I always forget to change lightbulbs} and hide under the covers.