You look on the counter for a butter knife. There is nothing on your counter. There has not been anything on your counter for weeks. You realize, with foreign unease, that you now keep butter knives in your silverware drawer like a normal person.
Under the stove has not been cleaned since you moved in. You sweep under it, find chicken bones. So many chicken bones. None of your roommates think this is strange.
Your 20/10 timer rings. Your girlfriend complains, “But I was just getting started!” What is she talking about? You’ve been doing 20/10s for days. The timer rings again. Ten minutes are up. You cannot remember a time when the timer was not ringing.
You want to clean the refrigerator, but you are afraid. You can feel your hope dwindling. Last time, it wanted a sacrifice. This time, all you have left to give is your soul. You don’t even know what’s in that tupperware anymore. Maybe it can wait another week.
You’ve been doing the dishes for hours. You’ve scrubbed down through the topsoil. You’ve found ancient pottery you don’t remember owning. You think this plate is made out of bedrock, and yet your favorite cup still taunts you from under a pile of forks. Only two people live here, how are there so many dishes?
“Make your bed!” shows up on your dashboard. You try to ignore it, but it’s coming up on every reblog. All of your tabs have been replaced with UFYH. You hear someone in the next room say that excuses are boring. When you look up, the bed is already watching you.
You pick cat hair off of your clothes, but it keeps spreading. Soon it is on your couch, your floor, your walls. You sweep piles of it out of the bathroom. You stop to pick a cat hair off of your tongue. You haven’t owned a cat in three years.
The bathtub is getting hungry. It is time to clean it again. It smells of vinegar before you even reach for your spray bottle. You no longer question the inhuman sounds that bubble up from the volcano bombs.
Your “after” picture looks just like your “before” picture. You are not sure you ever took a “before” picture. Your friends ask worriedly why your phone is filled only with pictures of tables and messy counter tops. You know they could never understand.
(This is just to be silly; I love UFYH and like making fun of my messes.)