To know me is to love me, unless you live with me, then to know me is to wish forensic science had never advanced beyond dusting for fingerprints.
I have figured out that messiness is not what bothers me; its lack of organization. In the event that I desire to put something away the fact that it has no permanent home causes cracks inside the reactor. The pencil goes in the drawer underneath the coffee pot. I do not need to put it away right now because I know where it goes. Freakout = Contained. The paintings that have not been hung, leaning against the wall, I hisssssssss at, not for taking up space but for being homeless (instantly, I become a Tea Party troglodyte, the shame). In my house, if you have no permanent place to be, either you find one or you get donated to charity along with last years manic glittery long sleeve shirt purchase (are you fucking kidding me, Bunny?).
Short people included.
Cleaning supplies come in all sorts of shapes and sizes and I must have them all. ALL! Separate cleaners for wood, stainless steel, floors, toilets, windows, granite, and walls, we don't do that all purpose shit in this house. If it comes in a new package, a different way (instead of a spray we shall give it to you in baby wipe form) I have to try it, to add it to the collection of lemon and orange and bleach scented glory I get off on. I'll lick your glass and stroke your appliances; OCD Princess of the New Millennium makes very little money as a prostitute because she loves sponges just that much.
The Silent E: Pinesol. Hands down, the nastiest, grossest, foulest, stinkiest representation of cleanliness I have ever come across. It's sanitary misrepresentation, since when is a fucking pine forest clean?
Go away, Pinesol.