What pile of things on the counter?

I've had quite a busy few days helping Jaz and his mates paint the studio that Josh, his mate, had just taken over. Oh my fucked nails. Fucked to bits and beyond. But painting studios are good in a sense that I could lock myself up in one of the rooms, play some music and wail at the top of my lungs singing without having to worry about putting off the people next door. If they could hear me in the next room then that is a sign for them to put more padding on the walls to soundproof it.

I wish I hadn't talked so much to Jaz in our entire relationship, you know. I just fucking talk so much. In fact, that must be about eighty percent of the things that I do in the relationship. I would talk and he would almost always take the piss for the fun of it. I talk when I'm cooking, when I'm cleaning, when I'm scrubbing the toilet, before shagging, after shagging and maybe sometimes in the middle of it as well. It must be all that pent up crap spewing up after growing up in a household where everything that came out of my mouth were labelled Teenage Arrogance, Ego Of The Young Adult or the Thoughts Of A Dying Atheist. That and the last relationship before Jaz where almost everything I said was accused of being condescending, arrogant or downright cuntish. Even when I was discussing Wormholes, Darwin's Theories or blooming Shamus the Whale. Anyway. I wish I haven't told Jaz so much. Because now he knows very well my cleaning habits.

He knows that when I said I will put his crap On One Side, it really means Inside The Rubbish Bin. He knows full well that I will gather up his pile of offending clutter and lump it all in the bin. Being forced to be raised by a hoarder, I am a firm believer of Clutter Must Die. Of course, I couldn't lump my mother's millions of plates, potteries, teacups at one go, but over the years I have learned that everything must be done at a slow and steady pace. If I dump 2 plates on a daily basis, the change would be gradual and what she does not know would not make me lose an eyeball. I only knew of my mother's dark, disgusting habit when we moved out of our old house and out came cartons of plates. I would open a carton everyday hoping to unpack and settle into our new place and it would all be plates. Plates with different trims, of different shapes and sizes. Some 300 plates for a household of FOUR. I had wondered if she had planned to lay them all on the street one day and feed the homeless. With Jaz, it is all cluttered pieces of crap consisting of mail, take-out menus, Buddhist Temple leaflets, more useless acupuncture flyers of one kind or another and it is all lumped in one corner that pokes the corner of my brain that will not tolerate clutter. Sometimes it would do me in so much that I would suddenly get up, slam things about and dump it all in the bin saying CLUTTER. MUST. DIE. And 'Fucking WHY do you like to fuck up my Feng Shui!?'. Usually he'd answer with 'Because you're cute?' or something equally infuriating that makes me want to repeatedly stab him with a blunt object. But that is him. He is indifferent when I chuck things out because those things mean fuck all to him and he was just putting it to One Side because he can't be arsed to sort it out to put it Inside The Rubbish Bin.

Even when we were at the studio the past few nights chucking things out he would keep a few things Just In Case. It would make a nice ornament, he said. WHAT fucking ornament!? I had said, IT IS FUCKING MANGLED. To that he said, I can fix it back to it's original state. We argued over a piece of shitty ornament until he said FINE. CHUCK IT. And then I felt bad and said Okay, fine, fix it you petty old woman, and we kissed and made up.

I love him with all my heart, I really do. I love him enough to let him hang on to a few crappy ornaments, computer spare parts, oriental knick-knacks. But that will never stop me from putting his things On One Side when he wasn't looking.