There was a crooked woman, and she walked a crooked mile,
She found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile;
She bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together in a little crooked house.
Sometimes life imitates art. I am a crooked little woman. And I live in a very, very crooked house. Nothing is plumb, nothing is level. I doubt there is one, single, 45 degree angle in this entire place (and if there is, it most certainly is where a 45 degree angle shouldn't be).
Even the switch plates and outlet covers are crooked.
Whoever put this house together clearly did it by eye. And their eyes were not set straight in their head.
I mean, I love it.
It fits my crooked personality to a T (ironically enough).
And, normally, its not even that noticeable to the lay person. That is to say, when everything is crooked, nothing is.
Or so I should remember.
Because for some strange, unknown reason, this crooked little woman, living in this crooked little house (with all her crooked little cats) absolutely INSISTS on hanging things level, thus assuring that the only thing they appear to be is CROOKED.
I think the irony might be driving me mad.