I sigh in frustration as I hear you come into my apartment. Dozens of discarded cans clatter as they fall. Trash covers the floor, piled high, up to the ceiling. The only space is on the filthy sofa where I'm lounging, watching TV through an aperture in the hoard. Narrow passageways lead to the kitchen and the bathroom. The bath itself is full of trash bags. Only the toilet is barely accessible. Even so, nobody in their right mind would want to. But I'm one foul pigeon woman. "Fuck off, ok?"