I wonder if there’s another domestic task as horrible as moving, maybe changing diapers or talking to children. Recently I moved all my worldly possessions and myself from a tiny apartment to a small-ish room in a house, and I learned something really valuable: I’m total shit, just the worst, a real mess of a person. My last apartment wasn’t exactly what anyone would call “clean,” or “up to code,” or “livable,” but I think that suited my personality pretty well. You see, I am unclean, something of a social piranha, and barely alive (if my system is ever free of caffeine, I’ll disintegrate like that guy from Raiders of the Lost Ark.) I’ve known all that about myself for a while, but I was reminded in new, awful detail when I moved all my possessions. Here’s what I learned.
I’m not a hoarder, but I hoard. I never consciously wondered what two years of discarded essays looks like, but the curious deep recesses of my brain must have really wanted to know. I didn’t hoard magazines or snow globes or live animals like the standard gerbil-person. I built my nest of old homework and too many books like a wretched cave-librarian. It’s not like I had any sort of epiphany about my bad habit either; I’m not that smart. Instead, I noticed how much shit I had collected when it finally came time to transport it all.
I buy stupid stuff. I threw out 4 different broken crazy straws–the kind that wrap around your ears and look like glasses. I should note that I am an adult that pays bills. I am, however, also a less attractive reimagining of Tom Hanks from Big minus the kooky adventures or piano-dancing or accidental pedophile girlfriend (jokes on you, Tom, I have nobody!) Other than the crazy straws, I also found a few dozen burned out glow sticks, miscellaneous crystals, and a plastic giraffe which I call Rory. I did keep Rory because I need someone to help me edit posts, but other than that most of my possessions were totally unnecessary and I purged them from my life.
I let way too many fish-monsters live with me. I was pretty lax about what I let fall under my fridge, and naturally a few of the inhuman ancient ones from the cities in the sea found their way into my apartment then slithered beneath the crisper. The space under my fridge was the ideal environment for the hateful scaled ones: it was a cool, damp place with a rich culture, a vibrant nightlife, and a steady influx of grapes that always fucking rolled straight under there. The space under the fridge is the true measure of you as a person: if it is clean, you are a well-rounded adult. If your space-under-fridge resembles mine, then you are the roommate of a monster and possibly one yourself.