This Is Not A Self Help Book

There are two types of women in this world.  There are those whom you tell, of the anxious desire to run what generations of female chromosomes have culminated in your genome to tell you is the perfect home, and who then promptly proceed to tell you that there is no such thing, that you really shouldn't even try, and that you're just being too hard on yourself - only to turn their back on you and smile wryly to themselves while clicking their devil-long finger-nails together and catching a sharp glimpse of their ears suddenly pointing and their incisors sharpening in a spotlessly reflective surface in their own homes (because the only way you can run such a home is to sell some part of yourself to a dark art that in return for your soul grants you, and only you, an extra five hours of daylight between 2 and 5am).
And then there are the women whom you simply don't tell of your eternal struggle between good and the invisible evil (not Satan, Dust) because they really don't care and it's awesome not to.
As it turns out, no amount of Eckhart Tolle and any other self-actualising This Is Not A Self-Help Book is going to make me okay with sharing a house with dust-bunnies.

-Soba