Cramer moved into his first apartment in July of 2011, having just
landed a job that could barely cover the rent and utilities. Since then,
months of half-hearted grooming and daily use have left the entire
hardwood floor of the small washroom blanketed with a fine layer of shed
pubic hair and infectious spray from hundreds of toilet flushes. What's
more, the water has left a red residue wherever it has been allowed to
pool, the faucet is covered in toothpaste resin, and a neglected shaving
cream canister has branded his fiberglass tub with a resilient ring of
rust.
"Don't think I'm blind to all of this," explains
Cramer to his empty apartment. "I know when it's time to draw the line.
So this Saturday I'm going to relax and enjoy myself, and Sunday I'm
going to slap on the big-boy-pants and get to work."
Residents of Jim's psyche have a different prediction for the week's end.
"You
want to know what's going to happen?" asked Jim's carefully suppressed
sense of self-awareness. "Saturday he's going to go out alone, not make
any friends, and he sure as hell isn't bringing anyone home from the
bar. Then on Sunday he'll tell himself that he's going to die alone, so
what the hell is the point of having a clean bathroom when nobody but him is ever going to see it?"
This will be the tenth consecutive Sunday that Jim Cramer has pledged to clean up his home and car.
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