Those dishes in the sink will not get done, so you may as well stop asking about them. And if you dare raise the subject again I will continue to reply using passive constructions, as the dishes exist in a realm that has nothing to do with me, though relatively speaking they are beneath me. That should explain damn-near everything, but given your countenance, I feel obliged to elaborate.

They will not be done because doing them would equal surrender, and I am not about to surrender. Quite the opposite, in fact, for this pile of filthy dishes stands as a symbol. Not your usual whiny symbolism, either. They don’t, for heaven’s sake, represent depression, inertia, or a slovenly retreat from life as we know it. Instead, they symbolize triumph, action, a heady mixture of devil-may-care disdain and cavalier dismissiveness. No, I won’t condescend to soak them.

Gaze at the dried avocado and egg ooze as it cakes on the top half of that wooden plate. Marvel at the batter stains (is it from muffins? Brownies? I can’t remember) that have welded onto that metal bowl, despite the copious amount of gray liquid pooling near the top. That substance, whatever it is, may never come off, should anyone attempt to clean the vessel. While you’re looking, you might as well take in what appears to be eight days’ worth of coffee cups tossed about the sink in every fashion imaginable.

At this point you get the picture. Not only is the person behind this fetid swamp self-sufficient and careful to nourish himself with omega vitamins (pronounce that word in the British style, i.e. vittamins); that same person is also—and this should go without saying—a productive and highly active member of society. Who else would drink eight cups of coffee (excluding top-offs) without so much as a moment devoted to cleaning them? What solitary dweller on our lord’s green earth even owns eight coffee cups? It has the feel of a sledgehammer blow, the way it wallops you, how this specific entry to the list of undone dishes exudes an impressively realized ambition. Type A, you’re thinking, but that is wholly inadequate. I’ll let you keep trying.

In the meantime, you might clean up a bit.

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Eric Schaal is an emerging writer who hails from Southwest Philadelphia. Since graduating from NYU, he has lived and worked in New York City. The arrival of a newborn son has him reconsidering his position on dishwashing etiquette.