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Flash Fiction - Clean Houses


Someone once told me "Meth Freaks have clean houses".
"When they're high, all they do is clean, and organize."

Crack smells like burning a soiled diaper. I don't know which is more shameful to be familiar with, but I do know that it's never been anything I ever considered "clean".
I also wouldn't call where I stay a house, or home, for that matter. Sure there are walls and a ceiling, that I enjoy very much.
Also got a couch that many a creature finds confortable, and my little way of knowing my electricity hasn't been cut off yet - a loner floor lamp, appropriately missing it's lamp shade.
Junkies have junkie homes. Clean Freaks have clean homes. I would suggest that it makes sense, but I'm not one to talk much about "sense". I don't even know what clean means.
Like an hourglass with a sand-clot, I sit on my couch and envy the light my lamp shines upon the environment we share.
"Sorry I can't give you one of those clean houses we were talking about."
Tyaeda Uploaded 06/20/2011
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