One can learn a lot about a chap via perusal of his sub-davenport floorspace. Such an area forms a physical manifestation of persona and priority. Give me a day under a couch and I'll give you a psych evaluation Jung would be proud of, a behavioral vignette Skinner would applaud.
So. Want the dirt on Derick William Dalton?
Exhibit A: Dirt.
Grains too large for clay or loam. Very gritty, nearly 0.5 mm in diameter. Pigmentation indicates decomposing granite, about a six on Moh's scale of mineral hardness. Conclusion? Classic hoarding behaviors. And failure to remove shoes upon entering the house.
Exhibit B: Dust Bunnies.
Not only are these rapidly reproducing under here, they each have a terrible infestation of mites. Mangy dust bunnies is a nice touch. But the real issue is their attitude.
“Hi Dust Bunny. I think I can get you some flea powder for those pests.”
“Pests? Those are my children.”
“I meant the dust mites. That's gotta itch.”
“Mites? What are you insinuating? That I tolerate or contribute to parasitism?”
“I see them crawling through-”
“Get your eyes checked, turtle.”
Denali ain't just a park in a Alaska. Wait, that came out wrong...
Exhibit C: Junk mail.
To my trained observation, there is a positive correlation between distance from the front of the couch and the postmark date. DWD is a stuff-and-forget type. Procrastinator. Abstract random. Look, a wrapper of a – um, never mind. Make that abstract randy.
Exhibit D: Pet.
Who leaves their pet turtle under the couch? That's not the place for a beloved member of the family.
Unless I've been demoted. See? Withholding affection.
Uh oh. Here he comes to put me in the bath again. Save. Publish. Logout. Reopen rough draft he was pretending to work on to cover up video games. Whew.
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