Summer life

I don't know about you, but so far my summer's been going great. I have the luxury of a job that allows me to set my own hours, so I can sleep until 10 a.m. and amble into the office at 11 a.m.without anyone batting an eyelash.

I have a large enough cadre of friends with nothing to do that my evenings are spiced with a tang of excitement. I have a booklist a mile long, through which I'm currently munching like an adolescent worm. In short, it's hard for me to imagine a more idyllic way to recharge my batteries after the harrowing school year.

Well, that's not quite true. My life at the moment, as much as it appears unblemished from a distance, is actually supported by a slipshod tangle of toothpicks, miniature marshmallows and duct tape, like an eighth-grade science fair entry thrown together the night before deadline -- it's in shambles.

Peel back the shimmering patina of lazy evenings and carefree afternoons and gaze at the horror just underneath. A Tower of Babble composed of soiled mugs and cereal bowls teeters in my kitchen sink. The tale-end of a block of Tillamook cheddar in my refrigerator, nestled next to cans of refried beans and a package of tortillas, stands as a mute testament to how I prepare most of my meals. The coffee table on my patio has reached such an advanced stage of decomposition that, while still freestanding, it can now fairly be called a natural feature of the back yard.

None of these booths in the freak show that is my apartment bothers me nearly as much as how little they bother me. I eat my evening burrito, fried to perfection, on my outdoor coffee table, then place the dirty plate ever-so-carefully on top of the growing pile in the sink and walk away whistling.

Occasionally, I pause in the act of abandonment and think to myself: "Maybe it's time to think about doing the dishes." But then I glance at my watch, note the late hour, and am forced to choose between another couple chapters in Vonnegut and using a knife, rather than a fork, to spread butter on my toast the next morning. The toast rarely wins.

Perhaps the biggest factor in my delirious tailspin into slovenliness is that my illustrious roommate shipped off to Costa Rica for a few weeks of exploring, leaving me the sole judge of "acceptable cleanliness."

As it turns out, this was a big mistake on his part. Nathan can't be labeled a disciplinarian by any stretch of the imagination, but usually the knowledge that he could, at any moment, harbor a secret disappointment in me keeps me in line. The apartment is in reasonable, if not unassailable, hygienic shape. But now that he's flown the coop, my friends and loved ones have witnessed a predictable reversal of the status quo.

If I were to tell you, for example, that my beta fish had been floating at the top of his aquarium for the past six weeks, since before I returned from Europe, would you be surprised? This was the case until very recently.

The fact of the matter is that owning a dead fish is a lot like owning a live one, except that you don't have to feed it. It's not as if the fish greeted me when I came home from work or did tricks to earn fishy treats; he floated in his tank in much the same manner as he did after his tragic demise, albeit in an upright position. The aquarium didn't even smell, so I essentially just forgot that I owed my pet a proper funeral.

Even I have my limits, however, and a six-week-dead fish is one. As I carried the aquarium to the dumpster outside my apartment building and unceremoniously upended it, I had two thoughts. The first was, "Farewell, little beta."

The second was, "Nathan would be so proud."