Too lazy to finish a sente....

One of the dangers of being a slovenly creature, like myself, is that when home alone one night and cooking dinner for yourself without witnesses you are liable to make mistakes. Take for instance, this evening. Husband is at dance and I am home by myself cooking stir fry and drinking diet rite Portello directly from the bottle. I put the delicious beverage (with 5% juice - it makes it healthy) down on the bench. When I pick it up and take a swig I notice it's rather thicker and more oystery than normal.
Yeah... That'll be the Oyster Sauce then. That's not even close to Portello.
I know that I could have avoided this entire situation by pouring the damn thing into a glass, but it's just so much effort.
It's the same crushing laziness that leads me to kick my shoes off in the general direction of the designated shoe area, and trip over them time and time again until I give up and finally kick them close enough to the wall that I won't trip on them in the middle of the night. I won't actually bend over, pick them up and move them, I'll just scoot them further with my foot so that they're not such an immediate trip hazard.
It's the same debilitating not botheredness that refuses to let me put things away when I'm done with them. I look at the things on the bench, the flour, the eggs, the sugar and this wave of instant lackadaisical apathy will come over me. It's why there's a soft toy ninja on top of my recipe books. He doesn't belong there, but it's just so much effort to move him.
There's a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle spread on the floor of my study. I haven't even finished the border, but I can't bring myself to sit down and actually do it, nor can I bring myself to pick it up.
My casual attitude to the general neatness of my environment has been a problem for those that live in my vicinity for as long as I've been alive. I maintain that I know where everything is and it's a sort of strata system.
I washed that dress and put it on the pile about 2 weeks ago, therefore it will be approximately 1 meter from the top of the pile, slightly to the left, because the clothes fall that way due to some trick of gravity or the slant of the chair I have placed them upon.
Husband is a neatness freak. Everything has a place. He may not necessarily know where he's put it, but damn it, he put it somewhere and that's where it lives.
My kitchen has a whole bunch of random hooks that things hang off. So does my bathroom. I have a fucking wok hanging from my kitchen window because that's it's spot. Husband has decreed that the wok lives on the right, and the fry pan on the left. I wanted to go for more traditional curtains, but hey, let the man have his fun.
My house, were I to live alone would possibly resemble that of one of those hoarders houses. Not because I have any attachment to the things, just because I can't quite bring myself to put down my sci-fi book, get off the couch and fold towels.
It's something that I know I'm going to have to work on... Just not now, I'm reading this book.