Unless you are totally immune to the feeling of four walls stalking you with their invisible wall eyes (or maybe you’re into that sort of thing, I don’t judge), you’re like the rest of us and are battling degrees of stir craziness that are so ADD they change by the hour. You’re also trying to find things to do with your time and energy as we all fuck-off-at-home. Some of you may have even staggered your way into spring cleaning.
I love spring cleaning. I do it once a year regardless of whether or not Mother Nature has grounded me to my room for fucking up her planet. There’s something cathartic about purging things that you don’t use, getting reorganized, and that feeling of total cleanliness that goes along with it. It’s almost enough to make a tainted soul feel pure. I do the apartment, my physical files, my calendar, my laptop, all if it over the course of a few days. It really is a project I both lose and find myself in at least once a year.
It is also a fucking gigantic pain in the ass. In fact, it has its own stages of grief.
Stage One: Arousal. Yippee-Ki-Yay Motherfucker! This is gonna be so cathartic that I’m gonna have a soul cleansing, spiritual orgasm. Holy shit! I have a spring cleaning boner! Rage on! I’m gonna clean everything right in its sweet spot.
Stage Two: Uncertainty. Um, so this is taking a little longer than I thought. The sweet spot has become elusive. I’m an awkward teenager all over again. Why did I decide on this over sleep and snacks? Can I just throw everything back on the shelves and curl up with the remote? No one will ever know, so they can’t judge. Which pile is the remote buried under? I’m just running a disk defrag on the computer, why does it sound like it’s dying?
Stage Three: Confusion. Jesus Fucking Christ, when did I get all this shit? Did I buy all this shit? Was I drunk? Is that a fucking shake weight? How long has this been in the fridge? Since before I moved in? When in my wildest dreams did I think I was going to use that, eat that, finish that? Where in the fuck did these files come from? Are these viruses from porn? Should I be worried?
Stage Four: Conflict. I should donate or throw this shit out, I’m never going to use it. Well, wait. I might. I mean I bought it for a reason, right? The virus scan came back mostly negative, so I need those files for something, I’m sure. No, I want to de-clutter, I need to get rid of it. Burn it all and play the fiddle like Nero! Oh fuck, why did I get rid of that? I want it back!
Stage Five: Disgust. Where in the fuck did all this dust come from? Has it been lurking here the whole time? Do the dust bunnies fuck like rabbits and hide in shame? Did the shower grout whore itself out on Tinder and catch mildew? Have I been bathing in this? Oh fuck, turns out those files are viruses. I feel so unclean.
Stage Six: Despair. I have lost all track of time and space. What day is it? Are we still under quarantine? Do my friends miss me? Do my friends judge me? I am Jack’s never ending shame.
Stage Seven: Domination. It’s done! I finished! I came 😉, I saw, I fucking conquered! I’m so fucking clean I make Danny Tanner look like fucking Pig-Pen. I will never, ever let this happen again.
Lies. All fucking lies. I found the remote. I’m gonna go eat snacks in bed.