The house I'm renting is falling apart. The landlady, blessed with a vagina, chills in Sweden right now and cannot care less, busy getting her free education and counting her monetary compensations, in addition to my rent transfers.

I guess I *could* pay for the renewals from my own pocket and hire a handyman to work under my own supervision, but... Apparently, I am the kind of person who'd rather shower in cold water, and shower less, than bother fixing a water heater and whatnot.

I remember when I was a teenager I imagined I'd be the kind of person who'd shave every day and work unpleasant jobs if only that meant a bigger paycheck — couldn't be further away from reality.

"Apathetic, lazy, introverted, and infantile," I blurted out casually in one of my previous writings, without realizing how comprehensively it actually describes me. Well, you can still nitpick. Laziness means different things to different people. For an OCD mom, it's her energetic child's cluttered room. For an ADHD friend, it's the fact you aren't physically active all day every day. For me, it's perhaps that I hate chores and lack the capacity to work toward my goals most of the time. One must also remember that laziness does not exist. It's a colloquial substitution for other things: a particular system of values, a set of habits, or health issues, for example.

It's not all that bad though. I still have passions. And I have faith. But it's not something I can brush off either. It's a constant, old nuisance. Six years ago, on June 4, 2019, I wrote, "Blessed are the hungry! For the belly of him who desireth shall be filled. How can I increase my appetite?" I was pondering exactly on the problem of my apathy. I'm not hungry enough for hot water, not hungry enough for money, not hungry enough for many good things. And I don't feel like a monk, free from petty earthly desires. I keep tolerating my own pettiness.