Broken Dreams

When I was a kid I believed with every fiber of my being that when I grew up I wouldn't ever have to clean anything ever again. Boy did that dream die hard. I really thought that I would grow up and get to be the boss and tell everyone else what to do and the days of cleaning my room and taking out the garbage would be behind me, but now I realize that not only do I STILL have to do those things, I also have to clean toilets, do laundry, scrub floors and clean out refrigerators. This sucks.

So the way I compensate for this monumental disappointment is doing all of the above as little as possible. I seriously wish I had been born one of those neurotic germaphobes who cleans everything all the time, but I wasn't. It turns out I get most of my cleaning done after watching an episode of Hoarders. You know, that show where people have sh!t piled to the rafters and they're sleeping on dirty laundry three feet from the ceiling and using the bathroom at the gas station because their plumbing hasn't worked for the last year. I think I could very easily be one of those people if I didn't keep myself in check, but I wouldn't be the kind of hoarder that doesn't throw anything away because they have some wonky attachment to old bread bags and used up toothpaste tubes, I would be the kind that's just to lazy to get up and put my dishes in the sink.

The following is a true story.

A year or so ago I went on a serious Reese's bender. I ate them night and day, believe me, I still have the cellulite to prove it. Anyway... When I go in the ditch like that I feel the need to hoard my stash and hide the evidence. As luck would have it, 6 and I have a king size Craftmatic fully adjustable bed, so after I would inhale my umpteenth rich and creamy peanut butter cup I would simply raise the head of my bed up and toss the wrapper behind me and then put the bed back down to cover the ever-growing mound of chocolate carnage. This system worked great until 6 (a neurotic germaphobe) decided to change the sheets and make my side of the bed.

That's when it happened...



The cat was out of the bag, the ship had sailed, the fat lady had sung.

An intervention was almost called that night and it took some pretty quick thinking on my part to convince my family that I didn't have a problem. I begged them not to send me away and lucky for me they agreed to give me another chance. I still fight my demons and it's a daily struggle to keep the bed remote out of my hand and the trash off of the floor, but trust me my friends I do not want to go back to that dark place ever again. Unless of course there's candy there.