I have just let a scalding hot iron take it's gravity course and onto my toe. Boy it hurts, and it's hot, hot, hot! I am a total failure when it comes to domestic chores. My peers all have everything ironed out perfectly, and that doesn't mean just the laundry. They wake up on time, splash the war paint on, get dressed up to the nines and arrive at their place of work at a decent time. They are also able to have dinner ready, wash three or four kids, tuck them into bed and wait for their husband. Me... I can only do maybe half of that. Thankfully I have a domestic lady who makes my house shine, I wouldn't be able to do it myself. Somehow I just throw my stuff everywhere. I cannot help it. I love clutter, because I can find my way easily through it. If someone organises everything, then I cannot find a thing. Something along the genetic road must have happened. My mum has everything in its proper place and order, my brother and I... we just have to get help. But then is a perfect house also a perfect home? I like to think it's not. I like my house anyhow, because I am surrounded with what I love the most. I also love it because it's so red that it would easily pass for a towering inferno. But it's all mine, and I'm content with it.
