Trixieland

I’m stuck here at Xbox HQ. I can’t go home for another hour because there are people in my apartment cleaning it. This is mildly horrifying to me (and probably more horrifying for them!). I am a slob. As anyone who has seen my office can avow. The even fewer people who have been allowed to enter the sanctum sanctorum that is Casa de TriX could tell you that my apartment isn’t quite as bad as the office, but it’s getting there.

 

You know when you move into a new place you vow that this time you will refrain from tossing your Cheeto wrappers behind the couch and will do the dishes as soon as the limp Coco Puffs have begun to ferment in the milk? *Sigh*

 

I had such high hopes for this apartment, too! When I moved in two years ago, I was moving out of a house I shared with a boy who had very different tastes in decor than I do. Do animal skulls and a gun cabinet paint a picture for you? He thought it would be really awesome to have a tree stump for a coffee table.

 

Anyway, when I got my own apartment I vowed that this would be a Trix-only zone. I could put up travel posters and make a tower out of empty Tiffany boxes and my shoes would have free reign, and by god it would stay clean! But the next thing I know I’m patting my body dry with approximately 50 quicker-picker-uppers because I haven’t done the laundry and I give up and buy plastic spoons for my Ben and Jerry’s because I don’t want to wash the real spoons.

 

What was I saying? Oh yeah. So my dad hired a couple of chicks to clean my apartment. Very cool of him to do. But I had to spend six hours this morning cleaning up enough for them to be able to find the floors and countertops in order to clean them.

 

All I want to do is crawl back in bed and finish "Kafka on the Shore"!