I love the smell of must in the morning…

Smells like… freedom.

Yes, I have finally moved out of my humble little abode, and am now finding myself buried amongst piles of crap that I never realised existed, let alone I actually bought. How on earth did I get so much junk?

Oh that’s right. Co-habited with one of those “female” thingies that I seem to obtain an infatuation with.

I hate to deride my current surrounds, as I’ve lived in what some would consider the velvet cushion upon the suede pants wrapped around the lap of luxury, but yet I find myself at a loss of words regarding the little unit I presently occupy.

Oh wait… no… that’s a lie. This place is a shithole.

Yes people, I am an ingrate. Yes, I should be thankful for the roof over my head, the warmth that four walls provide (no matter how thin these ones are), and that I’m not eating gravel and goop that has been scraped off the sidewalk, but… really… let me explain.

I once lived here, years ago. The familiar scent of must, dust and rust greeted my nostrils upon my entry. My brother lives here as well, and I surveyed the wreckage of years of neglect. I’m sure a look of revulsion was splashed across my face, as my brother was looking at me with his raised eyebrows asking the unsaid question, “What’s your problem?”

At least my designated room was empty.

I surveyed the bathroom, which I am completely sure hasn’t been cleaned since I moved out years ago. I imagined myself bent over the tiles with a toothbrush and some weapons grade industrial cleaner, scrubbing away whatever sentient beings he managed to create in my absence. By the way, is it murder or genocide to wipe away some living, breathing fungus that’s slowly writhing on my bathroom floor?

I know that once I’ve unpacked all my shit, the myriad of different pots and pans, the cutlery, the dinnerware, the cooking utensils, the varied and multiple toiletries and skin care products, tissues, wipes, scrubbers and whatever else, I’m going to fucking sterilise this joint.

But you see… I forget what this place represents for me. It’s independence, even though I’m still paying rent to my folks. It’s another slice of freedom, welcoming me back. This smell defined who I am today, and how I behave in the home environment.

But then I cast my eye back two paragraphs, and realise that that’s horseshit. I never had all those cleaners when I was young, single… and let’s face it… rich. This smell is almost sacred to me, and here I am threatening to wipe it away with a foul sweep of disinfectant and aloe vera.

What a horrible realisation… holy shit on a stick…

I’ve been domesticated.