On the kitchen counter

So I haven't been complaining abut Joe lately -- don't think I've even mentioned that he has moved back in with me. Temporarily, and all, but still.

However, if you were a young man who had moved back in with your mother, and were living in her office, with all your stuff in a corner there (having abandoned ALL your furniture -- ALL) and she was allowing you to live with her temporarily, as long as you followed certain rules strictly (these few rules were small and obvious {seemed so to her, at least} such as not turning the baseboard heat on, or leave the lights on or the water running or your clothes in the dryer. Somehow, though, every time you saw her she was grinding her teeth with all of them that you had broken, Every. Single. Day. ) and you had felt the need to smoke a little pot in her house, strictly against those few rules, and had carefully and quietly created a neat and tidy little bong out of materials she had lying around, and used it, greatly to your benefit and peace of mind, would you then leave for the night, with that tidy and carefully constructed little bong SITTING ON THE COUNTER IN THE KITCHEN??!!