I was forced to finally clean my kitchen floor after months of neglect because a bottle of beer fell out of the fridge when I opened the door and exploded in a sea of foam across the tiles. It looked cool and smelled even better.
The floor is clean now. It looks weird. The collected stains and marks had become so familiar over time, like old friends. I feel like I have wandered into the wrong house.
I think I need a maid. Maybe I should move to Thailand.