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The first time I babysat my parents house resulted with me vacuuming the pool table because I had been skiing on it. It is about as domesticated as I have ever been in my entire life.
“Change the dogs water, feed the dogs, make sure the dogs don’t pee in the house and pick up the dogs poop,” my mother made one last attempt to turn me into her on her way out the door for a week.
“Why don’t I just stop feeding them? Then they won’t shit.”
I lied and told her that I would be responsible, as I have a thesis to complete which leaves very little time for inhaling illicit substances off her furniture.
I made myself breakfast as her car left the driveway.
“I don’t think there is enough rum in this,” I motioned to my boy friend to pass me the bottle.

My mother is happiest around me when talking about my impending departure from her abode.
“Soon, I will be free from children and I can do whatever I want,” she frequently sings to me while I make dinner (see above).
“What are you going to do with all of your free time?” I ask, genuinely interested because, aside from the fact that I am a functioning retard when it comes to maturity, the woman hasn’t raised me since some time back in the mid nineties.
“I am going to have sex all around the house!”
Luckily I don’t eat solid food, otherwise I would have thrown up the first time she said it. Scotch, meanwhile, stays in my system no matter what mental images go into the vacuum that is my brain.
“If you ever say that to me again, I will tell you all of the places in the house I have had sex,” I threatened, thereby starting a very bizarre competition to have with ones mother.
“No you haven’t…” She does eat solid food. So, you know, whoops.
“Oh I have,” I poured desert. “See where you’re standing? Yes. Twice.”

The only time I have won at a game of pool was when I was having sex on top of the table.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” My boy friend asked.
“No. But the BBQ table can leave you with splinters.”
The stairs are fun because the levels are the ideal height equalizers. The hallway has strong drywall so no one will break anything when being thrown against it. And the kitchen hasn’t been used to prepare food [ever] so it is probably the most sanitary place in the house.
Whenever I have been home alone (otherwise known as “weekdays”), I have used the property as my own personal brothel because, well, what else is one to do when in training to become a trophy wife?

My boy friend had his first wet dream since the mid nineties while sleeping on my couch. Since a vacuum was literally going to be the only thing I would be blowing on the pool table, due to a lack of candidates, I was somewhat envious that I was no longer the star of the live sex show that is my lounge room.
“That happened to me to!” another boy friend informed me and I started to panic over the division between boys who have ejaculated on my property and the times I have actually been involved in the process.
“Maybe it isn’t my ability at all?” I thought. “Maybe I just have sexy fabric?”
With no one to sit on top of the mail box with, I wondered why my house had become a virtual orgasm machine for everyone but me.
“Maybe I am becoming boring?” I filled the neighbours recycling bin with scotch bottles. “Because this is the first time I have ever been home alone and, well, clothed.”
Later I sat on the shag-pile rug with my diaper-wearing (and very hungry) dogs and hypothesized ways to ensure that my life is interesting when I move out. And then I Googled “Beanbags”.

My mother called to check up on the state of her greatest asset (the house), curious as to whether her greatest liability (me) had managed to burn it down yet.
“You sound sober,” she observed. “Have you been behaving?”
I felt like such a failure and didn’t want to disappoint her, so I lied.
“Of course not. FYI sex on the driveway is amazing.”
“No you didn’t…”
“Yes I did. Twice.”