Watch me work through some deep-seated odd issues, based on a comment I made on a blog about eclectic people coming to someone's house, and how I deem anyone that doesn't exude a cloud of soap, deoderant, or detergent fumes...dirty. And how I'm a freak:

They're not dirty, are they?

I can't befriend the dirties. Try as I might. They're fascinating people, but for some reason the fascinatingness seems to go hand-in-hand with being icky.

I'm cultivating (or I was before Stephen dumped me and I lost my audience to go out drinking at gallery openings with... CURSE YOU STEPHEN!) a group of artist friends, but some of them are...smelly. A little smelly. Smelly like, I wouldn't necessarily want them to lie on my couch and get their heads on my pillows... I'd think about whether I should Febreeze the sofa afterwards. And then I'd do it, and feel like it was clean, knowing that it really wasn't clean... I mean, it was, clean, but that there were atoms of dirtiness left on it...

If I liked more people, and deemed less people "dirty" or "smelly," maybe my group wouldn't consist of manicured and straightlaced professionals, and I'd have more toothless crackwhore and crusty sailor friends. But probably not. I come off as arrogant (apparently, according to my mother) and so they probably wouldn't like me because they thought I was condescending. And I probably wouldn't like them, deep down, because they were dirty and I couldn't get past it...

Crikey.