Dr. House would judge me

Although it is way past my bedtime, I am nowhere near sleep. For some reason, the stresses and unfortunate news I have received over the past week or two have hit home tonight. I was going about my business just fine, happy as a clam (although I don't know exactly what clams are so happy about all the time), and I was driving home from dance class when suddenly the emotional discomfort struck. What terrible timing since sleep is such a precarious thing for me, anyway.

So I thought I'd have some ice cream and watch something on Hulu. Unfortunately, there was nothing new on Hulu that I wanted to watch. Furthermore, I decided I didn't want ice cream. So I returned the ice cream to the fridge and started popping an obscene amount of popcorn. It was alright that I was being noisy, because downstairs neighbor had (and still has, actually) his TV on pretty loud. I then proceeded to pour an even more obscene amount of melted butter on the popcorn and vigorously apply salt from my bear shaped salt shaker.

New and improved bedtime snack in hand, I returned to the couch to find new entertainment. Dissatisfied with everything on my shelf, I settled for House, season 2. I popped it into the computer and curled up under some blankets on the couch, munching away and handfuls of buttery, salty popcorn.

In the show "House", the medical team often breaks into their patients' homes and try to find possible environmental contaminants. While doing this, they make snide comments and remarks about the patient's lifestyle. In the episode I now have paused, they broke into the home of Dr. Cuddy, the anal-retentive chief of medicine. Her house was impeccable, and yet they found traces of a freaky kind of pneumonia-causing black mold. If they find that in her ridiculously sterile and clean home, what on earth would they find here?

This is Dr. House's face when he walks in the door to my apartment.

 This is his face after the results of all those tests come back. He can't believe what a petri dish I live in.

Currently, there are dishes in the sink, a bag of recycling outside the back door, two abandoned tea cups in the living room, and I think I may have left my tea cup in the bathroom this morning when I went to go brush my teeth. I admit that when I vacuum on the weekends, I don't always get under my bed or couch, so who knows what things could be accumulating down there? And I have not even considered cleaning things like the pipes under the sink! Then there's the whole thing where I have a cat, and there are messes that go along with that, such as plastic mice all over the floor, the occasional tumbleweed of hair, etc. On top of all of this, there is laundry folded on the big, comfy chair, ready to be put away, then dirty laundry on the bathroom and bedroom floor.

All in all, Dr. House is disappointed with me. Look at him judging.

The people in "House" never know that they are going to get sick, which I suppose is fairly accurate. There is no way I can predict if I am going to suddenly develop Lupus, ornithine transcarbamylase deficiency, botulism, or eastern equine encephalitis. Perhaps I need to start cleaning my apartment better. Perhaps I need to re-fashion my current lifestyle to reflect my fear that I will suddenly be struck down by an extremely rare disease and a team of snippy and judgmental doctors will break into my home and go through everything. It is kind of like that thing where you always have to put on clean underwear in case you are in an accident so that the peramedics know that you are a decent, civilized person. Only this is about 5,000 steps further than that in that I need to start scouring and disinfecting my apartment on a daily basis.

This may become a full time job.