I have a confession, dear reader.
Okay, fine, I probably have more than one. Basically my whole life is a lie but if I start to peel off the outer layers of pretense that keep me propped up it could get real ugly, real fast. And besides, I’m tired and I want to keep this short. So just the one confession for today, a kitchen confession.
We have roaches, cockroaches that is. I haven’t held onto the end of a joint since that one time in high school when — right, sorry. One confession at a time. So we have recently developed a cockroach problem and I’ve been keeping it to myself. It’s quite strange, really, since I have no problem at all shouting from the rooftops about my dead sink mouse, but the cockroaches must be not be mentioned. It will be our little secret.