May 8th 12pm - House for Sale

Putting a house on the market is about as enjoyable as listening to a seventeen-hour lecture on the chemical formula of Tourmaline. Take in to consideration that I sink in to a syncope even when people discuss thought-provoking things, like Mango Salsa recipes and Bonobo Monkey mating rituals. 
My parent's house is on the market and while I am gratified to assist the two that are responsible for my birth, my finances until I graduated college, and my life, helping with the house is as pleasant as watching my cousin perform a two-hour solo interpretive dance with a scarf in my aunt and uncle's kitchen. 
I was home for fourteen hours before I was attacked with volleys of orders. The toilet seats have to be down, the windows and doors open, beds made, carpet vacuumed, windows and glass tables Windexed, stovetop spotless, lights on, garbage evicted, and everything as impeccable as Scarlett Johansson's hair. Underwear cannot repose in any corners, birth control cannot be on the bathroom counter, and everyone has to evacuate before anyone arrives to view the house. 
These would have been admissible had Real Estate agents been coerced in to calling and scheduling an appointment before appearing at the house. Contacting in advance is suggested and requested. Agents with clients still materialize unannounced as frequent as STD's on Alex Rodriguez. 
I gallivanted au naturel through my bathroom door to my bedroom. As I've been residing in hostels with shared rooms and bathrooms, I felt as liberal being nude in my room as Sienna Miller does in public. I am no nude exhibitionist, but do believe the world would be a more unconstrained and humble place if nakedness were socially acceptable. I foraged through a drawer, my mind as vacant as that of a glue-sniffing chipmunk, when voices rushed my room. A talking face entered my eyesight. I had as much a solution as I would have for applying the definite integral in relation to function in the cryptic mathematical world. I wordlessly belly-flopped on the carpet. The agent, who was ahead of her clients, announced, "Oh, someone's in here. We'll come back to this room." 
I frantically ascended to the closet, dressed myself with as much coordination as Bjork's swan ensemble, descended the stairs and exited the house. I wondered where I would go and how I would get there, as I sold my car a few months ago. 
I sat on the cul-de-sac's sidewalk in a bright yellow shirt, orange soccer shorts, and no bra or shoes.

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