The SINK itself is okay; just a little too small. Like the COUNTERS. Too small. Like the apartment. Too small. I wish I could be a person with no things, enjoying a simplistic life. I long for having no things the way some people long for sexual freedom or coolness or style. Having no things! Delicious. That, that would be happiness, that is the stop I want to get off at on the train: Nothingshamshire. I will be an elegant lady with a small, thin bag and free arms and a coat with an classic line and a soap that works as a shampoo and a conditioner that is lotion and I will be radiant and my flat surfaces will have no piles and my house will look like a cell in a convent.
But I have many things, and they need places. Under the SINK is stuffed with things that I think I may need sometime, and every six months or so I need something deep back there. Under the SINK: constantly smelly, and sometimes when I do dishes I feel phantom tiny fairy splashes of water on my legs that must be coming from under the SINK and through the two cabinets. I don’t manage to ever take everything out from under the SINK and check, because that would be reinforcing the madness, and this isn’t actually happening.
Until I saw it happen to someone else. (I still haven’t done anything about it.)
I also fear there are CRITTERS under there, making love, leaving smaller CRITTERS under there. This cannot be confirmed. Plausible deniability of CRITTERS keeps SINK exploration at a minimum.
While looking for a new place to live, I collected pictures from apartment listings. I cannot explain them. My favorite was the picture that seemed to say, This is what this apartment would look like if you were on too much acid and you were stuck to the SINK. We never looked at that apartment.