so men, some men, some people, some day say that they could once do something. this something is usually something that they note they did well, especially when compared with others. 'i used to play a mean rhythm master' an old jazz cat thinks as he merges columns in an excel document. this something, this thing, for me is 'i used to clean a mean bathroom.'
my first wife (i like to assume) said to her family's maid--which, surprisingly, i was not related to--'kevin can clean a bathroom better than you.' this was when i was living with my mother. we lived just west of nowhere, and from my room i could view a silo and black smoke from when the reservation was protesting state tax policies by burning tires. how these condos were ever built, well, how is rather simple, tho it involves a long process with surveyors, architects, town planners, construction workers, electricians, etc. why they were ever built, well, why is rather simple, to make profit. i ask horribly stupid questions.
i think the reason i used to clean a mean bathroom is twofold: one, to impress girls (my mom and my first wife (i like to assume)). two, because other people's dirt truly disgusted me. i feel awful for having had this thought. i came out coated in my mother into this world. perhaps it is that drama, that reminder of debt, that reminder of mortality, that made me want to have a sterile environment as i tried in vain to clean myself at least five times a week. humorously enough, i believe it was around this time that i began to not wash my hair as much so as to have a 'just woke up' look about me.
to stop looking at the past, as long as that is possible, is a noble goal. it is also what i am going to try and do presently. now, i still can clean with great abilities--i tested in the 98th percentile--but it happens with much less frequency. this began after i moved out of the house i owned with my wife. it all just became my dirt. i should mention, i am relatively bald. i havent had a hairstyle that requires me, or even asks me, to use a brush or a comb in years. all hair that falls is hair that falls from my body. it falls in legions. there is a toupee in my bathroom drain. i look at the refuse in my bathroom, for example, tho this does extend to my apartment at large, and i think 'meh'.
it is fascinating how we can so quickly distance ourselves from what was once part of us. the most clear examples is feces, of course. of course, i am a male writing about feces now. jesus christ. i used to also be progressive. there may be a curiosity as to when i no longer was progressive, but that would be in the past and try as i may, i am typing about the present.
i start off thinking 'meh'. a week goes by. perhaps more. i begin to worry about how effective my drain will be in my shower. time passes. i have reached a point where i am disgusted at what once was mine! oh, existential crisis! i dont know if i should weep, mourn, simply clean, burn, or not even bother with these thoughts, but, oh, they are indeed there!
my apartment now smells of bleach, i have cleaned, scrubbed, and gathered the pieces of my body. i am scared to take a shower and begin the process all over again.