I just went on a crazy cleaning spree. It was awesome. I broke new ground; ceiling fan, the heater...it was like taking a hot shower after a long, excruciating camping trip at sites with no showers and disgusting porta-potties.

Cleaning used to be my addiction. And I had friends who tried to convince me that this was a bad thing. I'd spend hours of my weekend scrubbing, mopping, actually moving furniture. Friends said, "Life is too short. Get a cleaning lady." But the idea of someone touching my dirt always sounded super creepy to me, not to mention I live in a tiny apartment. But it wasn't only that. Why give someone else the opportunity to scrub away my mistakes, regrets, and dead skin cells? No, I thought. I'll just tone it down a bit, clean like someone who has a life. I gave myself an hour to toss a mop around. Now I have pockets of disgustingness, places I don't look at, my fractured sense self lies below the stove, under the bed...

Mold and grease are not my friends.

Just for today, I'm hiring a cleaning lady.