“I, too, live in my house” is what I say to friends who start feeling embarrassed about their conditions. There is a bar for what I can tolerate, but it’s mostly about hygiene. Lots of animal fur? Well just let me have a seat that isn’t covered in fur. If it’s a sheet over the couch, so be it. But my bar is somewhere above “smells like cat piss and there’s dried puke on the carpet”. Having cats for 30 years, I get it, it’s a hassle, but I don’t want to be there. Food containers are another thing that can bug me. Empty? Throw it out. Still has food that should have been refrigerated yesterday? Definitely clear garbage at this point. I’ll take a greasy, crumby stove over that, easily. Last spot, really, is the bathroom. Sticky or discolored surfaces are a problem.

But cluttered areas? Stacks of mail? Bad organization? No organization? Whatever. With any of this, I liked you as a friend before, and I’ll like you as a friend after. Maybe I don’t want to come over, but it’s not like I’m going to use your living situation as judgement on who I thought you were outside.