Forensics

At the corner of my bed is a small pile of nail clippings. All fingers with the exception of one pinky toe. The sink is not much better. Swirls of shaving cream are topped with enough hair to fabricate a pair of baby booties if I had the skill set to make that happen. The mirrors are sprinkled with toothpaste foam. Sooner or later I will have to look into why I brush so darn aggressively. And while it is not the most classy thing to admit to, there is always a trickle of piss in changing areas floors. It doesn't matter how much you jingle, but it ultimately turns into a game for my sister's runt dogs. My tables are never without a couple of balled up napkins stained with an assortment lunch greases. Whatever I ate last is free scuba diving in a half drunken gallon of orange juice stashed all the way in the back of the fridge. Pillow flipping is not a solution for the drool stains of unscheduled naps. Any shut eye that I plan for seems to signal a gentlemanly response in my biology as I wake up with a closed mouth. Nose breathing equates to a clean conscience. Beware of snoring men. They can all be arraigned without questioning as far as I'm concerned. Speaking of unprescribed sedatives, it's been about two months since I changed up my cum rag. I like to think of them as the pervert's necktie. Each time I look at my favorite stay at home shirt, I can't tell whether the red spots are ketchup or blood. Yes, I take itches a little too personally. Maybe I just need to bib up before attacking what's on my plate. A feedbag is not demeaning if you ask for one. Christmas isn't that far away. They say dust is mostly skin cells. Just waiting for something to tell me I am beside myself. It is nice to know that I can be in many places at once without being part of a crime scene.