My apartment has turned into a shithole.
It doesn’t take much time sober to see what you’ve neglected while you were out getting hammered.
It’s a miracle that my fucking cat is alive, much less is still willing to sleep next to me in the same bed.
I spent the better part of the day picking clothes up off my floor, vacuuming clumps of cat hair from every cobwebbed crevice of the entire place. Papers and receipts strewn across every table, counter, and both my couches. Dead flowers sitting in moldy water on the mantle, and almost every dish, pot, and utensil I own: filthy. Piled in the sink like a well thought out and poorly executed building plan.
Is this how I’ve been living? Is this the amazing apartment that I found by sheer luck almost a year ago? The walls, all still bare and white, both bedrooms nearly as barren as the day I moved in. If a stranger were to walk in, they would think I had moved in two weeks ago.
Is this where I’ve been living my life?
And it occurred to me for the first time as I mopped those last square feet of floor in the last of all my rooms, and stopped to breathe in the bleach and cleanser filled air…I haven’t been living my life. Not in this apartment. Not anywhere.
After a celebratory, “I cleaned this fucking dump,” cigarette on the back stoop, I walked back into my place. It felt new and fresh. And, as the first gust of cool, Autumn air pushed in through the open windows, clearing the air, I decided:
I’m going to live here.