Oh The Douchebaggery

I have nothing of real import to do...
Nothing to set the alarm for, nothing to mark the calender for (save friends' visits, doctor appointments, the charting of my decline into poverty, etal.).

So I have become obsessed with minutiae.

I have slept an average of three hours per night for the past week and a half.

How do I fill my days?
I have been cleaning like an underpaid and overworked migrant.

Two days ago was a dear friend's birthday...Happy, happy, Rosa Sparks!

Because I am like the little drummer boy and have no gift to give, I decide to a)
make a mix tape and b) clean out my closet and give my cast-offs to said wonderful lady.
Apparently she liked both. Or she is just completely un-superficial and doesn't give a diddly about the net worth of my "present".

Either way, awesome!

It took me well over an hour to clear out my wardrobe.
I was psyched to have spent 60 minutes doing something conclusive---something with a purposeful end result, if you will.

I proceeded to get down and dirty.
I rid my apartment of all meaningless detritus.
Bye-bye, high school and college yearbooks! Sionara, first drafts of stories I thought I might someday complete. So long, letters from exes!

You have been exorcised from my living space.

So I am running around just trying to find things that serve no purpose in my life so that I can do the ultra-cleansing ritual of throwing them to the curb...and I keep coming back to my refrigerator.

When I was working full time I never cooked.
Excuses prevail but, not the least of which is, I am tired and can afford to eat out.
Long story short...my fridge became the burial ground for more than a few take-out containers.

I am quite frugal.
I refuse to leave half of my dinner uneaten.
It goes in tupperware if I am at home or in a box if I am out.
Thing is I never eat the remains.
The act of taking it with me soothes my conscience even if it makes for a nasty breeding ground of bacteria in my Frigidaire.

One plus about not having a steady income is that I honestly don't eat that much.
I don't have to spend a ton on groceries.

And seeing as how I am on a fucking gluten-free diet and gluten-free equals highly specialized and highly specialized means I shop solely at Whole Foods and Whole Foods equals wallet raping, I can thank god for the small grace that I am not a foodie.

Whew..

Anyways, Ms. Rosa came over after my crazy merry-maid fanatics went down and was like, "Holy, shit! Your apartment is spotless and so organized!"

Then she went to retrieve a drink from my fridge, which I formerly dubbed Darth-Rator.

"Umm, haven't hit the fridge,yet?", she asks.

I answer that, with all my newfound zeal for cleanliness, the refrigerator is the final frontier.

Scary ominous shit goes on in there that I don't want to know about.

Who knows? The purple moss growing on the butter tray could hold the cure for AIDS.

I'm too scared to look inside sometimes.
True story.

Folks, I got so antsy today that I tackled it.
My fridge is so clean, Outkast could write a song about it.

Cue Star Wars music.

The final frontier has been conquered.

Sadly all that is left on it's landscape is a loaf of bread, some cottage cheese, a million condiments, and some turkey dogs.

Fortunately, thin is in.