I once briefly dated a guy who lived from hand to mouth. He got by on about $600 a month, mostly donated by friends who thought he was a starving genius. Literally he never knew at the beginning of the month whether he’d have enough to make it to the end without going hungry.
He was also a mega-slob. But he always said that if he someday had enough money to live in a nice place he was sure his “naturally clean self” would keep it impressively neat and spotless.
At the time, I lived in a house that was tiny but a gem. I’d bought it from a young architect who’d remodeled it for himself and his family and it was a work of love. Mr. Naturally Clean Self would come over and after an hour it would look … well, just like his place. Grime on the counters. Cabinet doors left open. Jackets and shoes discarded in the middle of the floor, furniture askew.
Now I realize some people just aren’t into keeping a tidy house, and that’s dandy. But I laughed at his self-delusion.
He also believed that someday he’d be famous and fabulously wealthy as an author. But of course, he never put a word down on paper — while at the same time he wouldn’t think of holding an actual job or doing freelance work because that would disrupt his spiritual and creative flow.
