I like living in squalor, it's liberating.

I'm all up for liberation, searching yourself, being free, young, foolish, carefree... But there's a reason why I pay £90 a week and its not to live like a squatter.

"I like living in squalor, it's liberating."

It culminated yesterday when my housemate said these words, and I understood it all.

He is one of those confusers who speaks in code and one must work at double the brain speed in order to fathom the meticulous thoughts being channeled in near-on Morse. That and the Brazillian layer of accent-felt that decorates the code and muffles recognizable sounds.

An intriguing kind, this one deserves a bit of explanation, not a poem. (see Girl)

He's introduced me to David Foster Wallace, a writer who I'd like to give a little more time to than sparce tube journeys and hurried bus rides. With a dissertation in the running though I always get that guilt feeling when picking up anything other than a module or dissy-related publication... Enzo talks to me about experimental writing, the beauty of books that have no punctuation and no understandable structure, and the likes of his own novel's style which he is in the process of "ripping off". It goes something like every chapter describes what will happen in the following chapter, so your always ahead of yourself yet tripping over your own feet, I guess.

Anyway, between the experimental music and writing, the quiet lady who hasn't spoken to me or even set eyes on me in days, the house looks like the sort of place Enzo would find liberating. But you know, the rest of us might not. What is to be done? An endless battle with dirt where even your fellow species wont help you fight is slightly impossible, and one ends up retreating to their section of barracks and trying to defend that, gunning down any suspicious enemies on their way out. So I guess that's what I do. Armed with antibac spray, I make my way downstairs to the kitchen when needs must, and out the door, whilst keeping my small barracks upstairs an un-invaded space.

I think its useful to pick up the dirt life sometimes sweeps in your path and throw it right back in its face. Coming back from a month at home, where my mother beautifully preserves our house and spends hours manicuring each room and each flower in the garden, its difficult to come into an abode where the only floral arrangement is drawn onto yellowing post cards on the wall and the newest member of the household is Grime.

The only way is just to laugh.

So, armed with the spray, I potter around, making piles of dirt and amusing myself with the obscenity of the things left rotting in the fridge, the way doors are anonymously slammed and the way bin bags are slowly making friends on the floor. Some days I put the bins in their proper place, the garbage shoot. Sometimes I wait to see how difficult it gets to open the kitchen door due to the amount of crap behind it before someone who put it all there decides to shift it. I am still waiting.

I think I can keep laughing as I know it wont be forever, and so long as I keep my kettle disinfected and wash everything twice with boiling water before putting food in it or eating with it, then i'm ok. Liberated as can be.

 peace and love.