Trash filled the kitchen with a New England clam chowder stench.
But instead of retreating into my corner, I got down on my hands and knees and began rubbing the trash suggestively all over my hot body.
My roomie's empty milk carton? I rubbed that sonofabitch over my chest.
And if my roomies walked in, I would shoot them a come-hither stare.
"Whatcha doing, hon," I'd say as I rubbed the deflated box of frozen peas over my privates.
In real life, the catalyst for this dream was well, piled trash and pot.
Since myself and Kevin are the only ones who clean up the goddamn kitchen, I felt driven to ignore the stacked pizza boxes and encrusted dishes for oh, about a week. ("We'll see who breaks," I said to myself one night. "If these fucktards want to live in their own filth, by God, they will.")
But last night in RL (cough: real life), I walked into the stinking kitchen and said to myself, "I'm going to light up a doob."
So after watching god-awful Family Guy for an hour, the pot compelled me to clean the kitchen.
"You don't understand," I told my roomies in RL. "I'm bringing a sense of order into our apartment."
When passing down the hallways to the trash chute and peering up from behind a mound of rotting food, passersby would shoot me an informal greeting.
"Hey Joey, what's up?"
"Oh, nothing," I'd say. "I'm just bringing order to where there once was chaos."
They would shoot me a confused look as I continued to nutter on.
"You should try it sometime," I told them. "It's very liberating."