MY LIFE: Cleaning my room

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My room… AFTER I CLEANED IT!

Archaeologists love finding piles of old trash. Middens, as they call them, harbor surprising amounts of information about ancient litterers: Their dietary habits, technological abilities, cultural traits and preferred tampon brands. Hey, early man, ever hear of recycling? After cleaning my room this weekend, I think I know something of an archaeologist’s thrill when she comes upon some ancient shitpile (archaeologists never get laid, so this is about as thrilling as it gets for them). If you clean your room as infrequently as I do, every cleaning is like an especially fragrant archaeological dig; each layer of shit corresponds to an era of your life long forgotten. So many memories.

First I dug right to the bottom and excavated a mummified piece of cake from my 16th birthday, black and hard. That was the year I first got Internet access, which would explain all the balled-up Kleenex lying around. Then I found my first cat, Jarmin. He looked pretty good for being dead for fifteen years. Next, I found a little dried pool of vomit left over from the time I got blackout drunk on my 21st birthday. Then I found my first Valtrex prescription, which I got after I figured out what I did that night. Be warned: Condoms are no protection against genital herpes. I know I used one that night because I just found it behind my dresser. Finally, I came to the top of the pile and unearthed my girlfriend beneath a stack of old newspapers. “What are you doing lying around here?” I asked. “Can’t you see I’m trying to clean?” “Listen,” she said. “I am so sick of stepping all over your shit. I’m breaking up with you.” So I was like, “well, you’re going to have to step over even more of my shit to leave, because I took huge dump right in front of the door last week. And if you stop bugging me I might actually be able to clean it up.” She sighed, picked up a steam-cleaner and got to work. Now my room looks great! If only I could do something about the smell.

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