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It irks me when my mother comes over to my apartment just to complain about how the place should be maintained.  ”How do you live like this?” is what she said when she discovered a drip of coffee on my kitchen counter this afternoon.  To her, this drip was the equivalent of the Exxon Valdez oil spill.  She asked for a scotch-brite and the spray bottle of Fabuloso, which I willingly handed over because it meant a clean kitchen for me.  Not to mention I enjoy the smell of disinfectant.  

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