Buried Alive

I'm standing in front of the toilet doing my thing when I notice something weird. Weird isn't unusual since I am in Mark's bathroom. The bathroom that Sasha pees in, the bathroom with the clothes thrown on the floor behind the door. Anyway, on the back of the sink is a razor, or I should say razors. Mark has ten razors on his sink, in a glass, and in a little holder on the sink. I realize that Mark is hoarding used razors. Great, they will fit in perfectly with the dozen bottles of lotion, half dozen bottles of shampoo, and equal number of bottles of body wash that decorate every available square inch of shelving in that bathroom. It is one of the reasons I use the guest bathroom. All this wouldn't bother me so much except for the fact that Mark was bragging to me the other day about his cookbooks.
"Guess how many cookbooks I have?"
"I don't know, three hundred?"
"No."
I look around the house. Every bookcase is filled with cookbooks, so I up the guess.
"Four hundred?"
"No."
Then I remember, the sun room that I had cleaned out and organized, isn't anymore. It is filled with crap, Mark's crap.

"Please don't tell me you have five hundred cookbooks Mark."
"No, I don't. I have five hundred, and eighty seven cookbooks."
It turns out that Mark is a borderline hoarder. He is this far (my fingers are a quarter inch apart) from being on that cable television show where cat ladies live in filth surrounded by mountains of stuff. In fact if you ever don't hear from me for a long time, send the police. They will probably find me buried alive in Mark's crap.
"Five hundred and eighty seven? That's crazy, what the hell? Not in your whole life can you ever use five hundred and eighty seven cookbooks." I yell incredulously.
Mark looks down, and then perks up when he hears the mailman out front.
"Five hundred and eighty eight."