It’s a pigsty
“It’s a pigsty”
Yes. I don’t get it. Living alone in squalor.
But if he’s happy, enjoy! Seriously!
“It’s a pigsty”
Yes. I don’t get it. Living alone in squalor.
But if he’s happy, enjoy! Seriously!
“It’s a pigsty”
Yes. I don’t get it. Living alone in squalor.
But if he’s happy, enjoy! Seriously!
“It’s a pigsty”
Yes. I don’t get it. Living alone in squalor.
But if he’s happy, enjoy! Seriously!
“It’s a pigsty”
Yes. I don’t get it. Living alone in squalor.
But if he’s happy, enjoy! Seriously!
Nonsense. His bed is made up.
Maybe, but it is his pigsty, not yours!
Your comment is the reason a lot of us men either get or stay single!
My grandmother in northern Alabama had a neighbor like that down the road. We knew him only as "Mr. Hayes" and he lived alone for over 40 years in an unpainted building that looked more like a barn than a house. He was never married so when his parents passed away, he just stayed on the property. His siblings had long moved away and lost contact with him. He had no telephone anyhow, so my grandmother and other neighbors would check in on him now and then and bring him groceries.
As kids (this was back in the 1970s) we would walk down there and he was always nice enough to us. He had yellow teeth and drank Coca-Cola non-stop. His entire place was in fact full of empty Coke bottles. The old fashioned glass ones. He wore the same frayed coveralls every single day, like the farmers of the Depression era used to wear. He lived to be well into his 90s. Rumor had it that he was mentally impaired but he always seemed sharp as a tack to us kids and always had good stories to tell.
—”It’s a pigsty”
The true artist sees order in chaos.
—”It’s a pigsty”
The true artist sees order in chaos.