I despise cleaning. Being a bachelor, my apartment is usually in a state of disrepair that would make these people blush. The debris can pile up for months, until an extended break from work motivates me. Sometimes though, the mood strikes me, and I become a cleaning machine.
Yesterday, I woke up to the cats having messed up the apartment worse than college fraternity parties. Apparently, they had a catnip party, as they knocked most of my books on the floor, pooped on the rug and threw up in the hallway. My younger self was so proud that they are living like rockstars, but the adult in me had a hissy fit, and promptly went out to buy new cleaning materials. My Saturday morning was pretty much devoted to cleaning.
So I'm sitting in a nearly immaculate apartment now, except for one serious thing. I can never seem to clean the bathroom. Part of the problem is that I'm pretty sure I'm killing a unique biological lifeform by scrubbing my linoleum floor. I've done many things in my life, but I have never committed genocide. It's just not on the list.
The other problem is that the bedroom is easy to ignore. I can close the door and forget about it. Will I clean the bathroom? Eventually, but probably not until the new lifeform I'm cultivating stands up and begins talking to me.