trapped in grey gardens

Dear Marc,

Help me.  I woke up yesterday and realized that I’m living in Grey Gardens.  I’ve got shit piled up everywhere and I spend my days wrapped up in a cable-knit sweater blanket, singing to myself, longing to get out of my self-made hell.  Marc, I need change.  I need you to be the Jackie O to my Little Edie.  INVEST IN THIS MESS.

That image my sadden and horrify you, but I think our kitchen is the worst part:

I know, we should start calling it Smellrose Place or something, but, in defense of me and Big Edie (my roommate, Jenn), the following are true:

  1. We come from single-child families, and when we were younger our mothers cleaned up after us, so it’s not a stretch to believe that, because our lack of responsibilies during our youths, we would grow up to become slobs.  YES, I’M PLAYING THE BLAME GAME AND YES, I’M WINNING.
  2. It’s COLD OUTSIDE, Marc.  AND our trashcans are like 100 feet away and we don’t want to walk through the snow AND through the creepy alley behind our house to get to the trashcans THAT MIGHT NOT EVEN BE OURS.  We don’t even know if we HAVE a designated trashcan.  Do I have to remind you of what Little Edie said about winter? “Very depressing, you know, when winter sets in.  Any little rat’s nest in New York, any little rathole even on 10th Avenue I would like better.”
  3. YES, I could take out the trash during the day because I’m unemployed, but then how would I have time/energy to find obscure movies on Netflix?  EXACTLY.
  4. We’re just two singles ladies who don’t have anyone to clean for.  And we drink a LOT, so…
  5. That’s not our Coca-Cola chair, so don’t judge (although it does prove what a mismatched shitshack we live in).

GET ME OUT OF HERE, MARC. Save me before Jenn dies of consumption and I throw a towel on my head and start feeding cat chow to the raccoons in the attic (is that racist?).

Faithfully Yours,