Thursday, June 9, 2011

You're giving me that look again.

That look that says that 2 o'clock on a thursday afternoon is no time to drink the dregs of leftover tequila ruminating in your ice box. I know, I knew you'd be dissapointed. It's not my fault, though. Its 90 degrees outside, and up here on the fourth floor in Allston, its probably close to 100. It's already psychadelic, I can see the walls melting and feel myself slipping backwards through time. Yes time! It's spring cleaning, don't you know? Which can only be done in the sweaty armpit of summer, one of those months that start with a "j" when even the high schoolers have been freed and the dirty concrete of Allston sizzles with every footstep. The college students that didn't retreat back to their midwestern existence sleep all day in borrowed, low-thread count sheets and emerge, braless and with exposed toes, only at night to drink pitchers down at the Sil and talk to townies.

And that's why, gentle reader, I got up this morning, went to the gym and came home and made myself a drink. This post constitutes my one-hour break. So far I've gotten to bookshelves and cabinets and the re-arranging thereof, but my vanity, desk, and carpet have yet to feel the pain of their inevitable de-lousing. Begone, salt and sand begotten from long, snowy walks and T-rides home! I drive thee out! Let us not speak of the closet, the living room, nay, the bathroom; the twilight of their filth draws nigh, and soon they shall know the bright sting of my all-natural witch hazel disinfectant I bought from Trader Joe's. And lo, the dust bunnies shall weep; weep, and having wept, perish.

Here at chez Hyde we are somewhat lax about our cleanliness. It doesn't bother me too much; we'd be a cleaner bunch if only my roommate and I weren't both full time students with part time jobs and the occasional social engagement. There simply aren't enough hours in the day, sweet reader, for me to make sure my tub is consistently mold-free. "There will be time for that later" I say to myself, throwing one backward glance to the alarming tinge of discoloration that's happening around the sink faucet.

That time has come.

Take what weapons you have. For me, its booze, a tank top, a headband, and Led Zepplin. I can't explain now, time is of the essence. Now is the hour of sorting, filing; the box of polaroids from high school, the reams of stickers, the abandoned knitting. To your cabinets, all of you.

OH and sidebar. The hat I'm wearing in that photo is, as almost all of my accessories always are, in our Card and Gift room. We had them last year and I secretly wanted one but was too shy to bust out a giant sunhat. Thank god that little phase is over. This hat is all mine, and I suggest you buy one too; they can fold up for travel. They'd be perfect for a luxury yacht. Any available millionaires out there in need of a trophy wife? You know where to find me. And its under this pile of backdated 'Bon Apetit' issues as I battle my way to the surface. Victory will be mine!

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