I finally did the fish dishes.  They’ve been sitting in the kitchen for four days, mostly because I used an electric skillet to fry the fishies and those cannot be submerged to clean.  I really dislike anything that I cannot dunk in hot, soapy water, so the skillet sat.  It sat and sat, smelling up the entire apartment.  I walked through the door Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and got hit by the delicate, nasty smell of dirtywhorecrotch.  It reminded me dreadfully of the days during the spring and summer of last year at Nick’s apartment he shared with Patrickface, where the ever-discerning landscaper planted horrible trees.  I’m sure you’ve smelled them, or even seen them around: they flower beautifully with tiny white flowers in clusters, that give off an aroma of simply floral mixed with . . . well, unwashed girlbits.  Every time I walked up the stairs, excited to see Nick, hug him, talk his ear off, I’d take a nice deep breath and get a noseful of flowery fishywhorecrotch.


Finally, Tuesday after work, I couldn’t stand the mess and the reek.  I did the stupid, stinky dishes.  My house is clean of inappropriate body part smells.  (except for the bathroom, but seriously, it’s the bathroom)