Spic and Span

I'm in my last semester of undergraduate work, and while many of my peers are scrambling for last-minute credit hours, fretting over job applications, or merely trying to get in as many keg parties as they can, I worry about none of this. Last semester? Bah. Been there, done that. The benefit of being a super-senior.

No, what I worry about is: how am I going to fit all my shit into a Volkswagen Beetle? I moved into my apartment almost four years ago, and since then, I have managed to accumulate, like plaque, a fantastic assortment of clothes, books, nicknacks, posters, and dust bunnies large enough to apply for American citizenship. The process was gradual, and so escaped my notice until it occurred to me that in a few short months, every single scrap of it is going to get boxed up, and shipped... somewhere. Most likely, my parent's basement. This means that my parents have a good shot at seeing the contents of those boxes.

Conclusion: Fuck.

Overdue library slips, threatening bank letters, embarrassing photographs, something goo-y that leaked inside my desk drawer, letters from that person I forgot to write back, papers with bad grades on them--all of them incriminating evidence, each one capable of revealing me to be a human being and not a Stepford daughter, and thereby leaving me open to parental nagging. They must be destroyed.

So where have I been these past few weeks? Knee-deep in old textbooks I couldn't sell back, bras of the wrong cup size, seventy-eight pounds worth of screenplays/Marti Saga, and a extravagantly heavy TV set that broke over a year ago, but I was too lazy to haul to the dumpster. All gone. My room is CLEAN, except in the sense of it being vacuumed, dusted, or purged of any actual dirt. After all, I had blog updates to write.