Howard Hughes Lives!

The European shit mountain

See, it's the mess that drives me utterly fucking nuts. The mess. It's the legacy of any three year old but Christ, it makes you want to beat kittens to death with a can of Pledge. My kraken cave has never been that tidy but the walking, talking landfill site that is Kraken Junior takes filth and clutter to another level entirely. It doesn't help that she has a compulsion to collect every scrap of shit she finds. Her body's been inhabited by Howard Hughes. Seriously, she's this far from decanting her piss into bottles and lining them up on her bedroom windowsill.
There are hair clips shoved into plant pots, crayons wedged into DVD players and discarded socks blooming from the skirtingboards like fucking mushrooms. Toys and books are forming Himalayan ranges across the living room bloody floor and for some fucking reason I keep treading on globs of playdough/ Coco Pops. Where we're going to put the Christmas tree in four weeks' time is beyond me. P'raps we can sprinkle pine needles and squirrel shit over the carpet thus cutting out the middle spruce and leaving enough room for Santa's plunder, you know, the gifts that I'll want to kick to death by Boxing Day because there's no fucking room for them either.
I keep banging on about shoving the lot of it into the back of the car and donating it to the needy but I'll be fucked if they'd want it either. Snapped, gaudy Tinkerbell bracelet anyone? Perhaps a single, yellow Duplo brick? Or could I interest you in three random pieces from a Peppa Pig jigsaw? No I thought not. Even the needy wouldn't want to root through the piles of shit that landscape our living room. 
Mind you, they'd be welcome to prise the can of Pledge out of my hand. What's that? You think I'm going to start cleaning? Ha, I'll be fucked. Just start lining up the frigging kittens.