I’m kind of lazy when it comes to picking up my apartment (for the Americans: cleaning up. No, I haven’t gone British. It’s just that when I say “clean up”, it could also mean deliberately destroying evidence and silencing witnesses, and my room does look like there’s been a major detonation. I digress). I have to do it once in a while, and I usually don’t mind the work. It goes quicker than you might think, and I can sacrifice an hour every month to restore order to my den. When it comes to different parts of the apartment, where I am not the only denizen, there are some tasks that I despise. It’s not for the nature of the tasks that I despise them; I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. Well, I mean literally dirty. Figuratively; I have never handled firearms or explosives beyond BB guns or firecrackers. Knives, axes, melee weapons in general, that’s what I do have experience with, but not to the point where I caused harm to humans. I’m a pacifist, remember? I digress. So, what it is that I despise about those tasks is that I didn’t cause the mess in the first place. My best friend, who is also my co-denizen, has a habit of not cleaning up after himself in the kitchen. I wish he would deliberately remove evidence of his culinary activities; after all, that is one of the few things in the household where things get ugly very quickly.