Robert Smith Does not Help at All

I found myself mindlessly swiffing today, cleaning the house for the arrival of my boyfriend’s parents. Swiffers are the worst waste of resources. Disposable electro-static cloth infuriates me. What happened to brooms and mops?

The lemon-scented cling cloth makes me feel completely glum, as if a stiff drink and a cigarette would do wonders before I consider the bathroom. It is too cold for smoking outside. I am trying not to drink. I hate everyone.

Do goths swiff? Do they wear rubber gloves to clean the toilet? Do they dash across the street, climb snow banks before cars run them down, to get swiffer clothers and bleach? Are their black shoes ruined by salty grim? Do they listen to the neighbors sing “Layla” and stomp on the floor? Do they really suffer?

Robert Smith was a thing to behold when I was 15. Thanks to him, I learned that eyeliner is a bitch to put on and it burns your eyes when you sweat. Boys might not cry, but they sweat, particularly if they are an over-anxious fatty teenager. I found out the hard way that I would never have his hair, no matter the amount of gel and goop slimmed and crested in my Art Garfunkel curls. (Oh what I would do for his hair now!) Robert Smith taught me that I could out-annoy my parents with melodrama and gloom. It might not be Happyland, but then that hardly mattered.

Of course, now I’ve grown up and am swiffing. There is no amount of The Cure that will cheer me up.