One of the best things about my house is that there is a ton of storage space.
Storage space is a scarce commodity in Southern California, especially in the older houses.
I hate clutter. I hate clutter more than I hate the moderate case of thrush baby #2 and I are passing back and forth lately.
I am barely able to act socially acceptable as it is, if my house is a mess, I might as well put my muzzle on and stay in my kennel.
So..... I clean obsessively. Sometimes a clean house is better than sex..... which is not an insult to my husband as much as it is an example of my excitement towards clean stuff. Sometimes, after I scrub the house down, I just want to cuddle and smoke a cigarette.
I rely on storage space to keep my house creepily neat.
I breath heavily and out of my mouth when I think about it.
I love storage.
What I don't love is when one of my storage spaces looks like a rape chamber.
One of the bedrooms in my basement has nice travertine floors, mirrored closet doors, ample sunlight, and a door that opens up to a cheery veranda surrounded by a tall awesome hedge
There is even a cute arched walk way cut through the hedge.
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This seemingly innocuous room contains a door in the corner that leads to this:
a little dreary, but it is an old house, no big deal. But see that smaller doorway?
Welcome to the rape room.
It puts the lotion on it's skin.......
Creeeeeeeepy, right?
There are no lights in there. You have to crouch down to fit since rapists/kidnappers don't care if you can stand up all the way. Dirt floors to absorb blood and tears. And also so they can bury the bodies when they are done.
