Ms. Keeping

How cluttered is Ms. Keeping's house. In the living room, books and paper were stacked high up to the ceiling, tilting dangerously, ready to fall any minute. Trillions of knick-knacks was thrown across in a sea of garbage. Ms. Keeping worked out, loss her bulky weight, and go skinny enough to climb through her house.
Ms. Keeping's kitchen was stinky, enough to make your nose leap off your face and hide in a corner. Dishes, cracked and old, piled high in the sink, and leaned out the cabinets. The refrigerator was expired. Old out-dated cheesecakes and meatloaf leaked out and stained the tiled floor. The trash can was stretched out, so bad that Ms. Keeping had to use a plastic bag as a makeshift trashcan.
Ms. Keeping's bedroom was worse. Notebooks, paintings, CD's, letters, t-shirts and jeans spilled on the floor, so thick that Ms. Keeping couldn't see a the floor, not even a scrap of carpet could be seen. The walls were covered with stickers and posters, paint and crayons, and colored utensil ever made.
The stench from the bathroom could be detected from miles away. The toilet, thank god, was still working, but the rim was yellow with germs, and every time it was flushed, it made a gushy icky noise. The laundry basket was foul. Ms. Keeping's usually left watery-eyed, but her nose had adapted to the stench of her house.
The yard was a grassland, with grass reaching as high as the roof of the house. Weeds were sticking out in the massive cropland, the only plant tall enough to out-grow the grass. The walkway leading up to the house was smothered with jungle-like plants, as was the mailbox. The poor old mailman had to cut through with a knife (which he brought daily now-a-days) and cram letters in the bulging, stretched out metal mailbox.

Ms. Keeping was un-married, every boyfriend she had left after visiting her house. Ms. Keeping loved to keep things. Shabby Ms. Keeping...if only she hadn't been given such an influential last name.