I live in a messy apartment with a stationary bicycle. The bed sheets are rumpled and disheveled. Clothes are strewn about as if I worship a God of Random Laundry. At night I hear the plaintive sounds of tile floors crying: Clean Me. Clean me. Every two weeks or so I clean my messy apartment. Really, I do. I'll even dust my stationary bicycle and bring order to my socks and shirts. I do it because the Goddess of Neatness tells me to.