MAH NAME IS PAPI, HERE ARE WISDOMS

1. PEEPLE SAY DON'T COLOR INSIDE THE LINES. DON'T SHIT INSIDE THE BOX EITHER

2. YOU MADE THE DRAWER AND NOW YOU HAS TO LIE IN IT

3. IDLE PAWS ARE THE DEVIL'S POLLY. WHO THE FUCK IS POLLY? WHATEVER, TAKE A NAP. 

4. HOOMANS. DON'T TRUST THEM AS FAR AS THEY CAN TROW YOU. WHICH, ACTUALLY, IS PRETTY FUCKIN FAR. PRAY FOR A COUCH LANDING. 

5. CLEANLINESS IS NEXT TO WHATEVERNESS, BUT BUTTS ARE FUN TO LICK LAWL. 

6. KEEP YOUR BITCHES IN LINE. 

7. A KITTY IN THE PURSE IS WORTH TWO CLAWS IN THE EYE.

8. THEY CAN TAKE OUR BOUNCY BALLS, BUT THEY CAN NEVER TAKE OUR FREEDOM....WAIT...FUCK.

You...dumbass...

Sometimes, in the dead of night, you wonder if those "mosquito bites" on your legs are really mosquito bites. Because they seem to itch an inordinate amount, and they are red. And they don't go away after washing, which most polite mosquito bites do.

And then you wonder, maybe it's poison ivy, because you sure do a lot of crawling around in weedy undergrowth, more than a normal person would, say a paralegal for example. So you Google what poison ivy looks/feels like and then you decide no, that's definitely not it. Fuck no. Not having that.

And then you think about how you've been wearing those new Kohls jeans that you bought without washing because you were so excited to have well-fitting jeans, because the big ones require a lot of belt action, and sometimes a really tight belt over really loose jeans makes you look like you have a penis. Which is sometimes not what you want.

And then you wonder if you could be getting a skin reaction from something in the jeans. Because your skin overreacts to everything. Your skin is that super polite girl at work that makes gaspy noises when you're telling a story, even if you're just describing a sandwich or Simon Powell's hair. It's like, relax, lady, this story ain't gonna pop any vital organs.

And then you remember how you were like SUPER excited to see how long you could go without doing laundry, so the only genital-covering option to wear to work tomorrow is those exact rage-inducing jeans. Unless you shave your legs and wear a skirt, which to be honest would be difficult to do with all those bumps all over your skin. Because of extreme blood loss being bad for productivity and morale in the work environment.

So what you've decided to do at this point is wake up early, like around 10ish, to start a load of laundry before work. Which would be an awesome plan if you hadn't already wasted so much valuable sleep time by posting a useless blog projecting your own laundry/skin insecurities in a slap-dash 2nd person narrative, which happened to come to an end just as your sleeping pill kicked in so there wasn't really a decent conclusion?...............

12 Steps to Cleaning Your Room in Your Own Damn Time - With Pics and Video!

That hamper is trying so hard...

Step 1: Declare that your room is "a disgrace" and that your mother "can't believe you live like this."

Yes I have finished unpacking my dorm stuff...shut up...

Step 2: Calculate exactly how many more days you can continue living like this. Add three more days.

Step 3: On the appointed day, set aside at least six hours of productive daylight within which you can complete your project. Instead, change into your cleaning clothes and dick around on YouTube until the sun goes down.

You want the room to have that "about to collapse in on you" feeling.

Step 4: Make a kickass cleaning playlist. Preferably one that includes songs you haven't downloaded yet.

Step 5: Take a Nutella break.

SO FRIGGEN DELISH

Step 6: Stare mournfully at your mess until you figure out the easiest thing to clean first. This is probably whatever takes up the most room, like laundry, and furniture that has tipped over or shifted during takeoff.

Step 7: Before accomplishing the quick and simple tasks that would lead to finishing faster, you should find one of your collections and organize it with a frightening and possibly OCD amount of precision. Hey, it is extremely important that your earrings are arranged by weight and that your nail polish bottles display a double rainbow.

Y'know, if the rainbow was mostly pink. 

Step 8: Take a smoothie break.

Step 9: Make piles. This may seem counter-productive, but it's super helpful to make a pile of clean clothes, a pile of dirty clothes, and a pile of I-could-probably-legally-wear-this-one-last-time clothes. You may have aspirations to fold or hang up the clean pile, but you won't.

Step 10: Crawl around your room with an empty Walmart bag and search for garbage. Wow that's a lot of receipts. Do you just dump your purse out on the floor? Where do all these clothing tags come from? I can't believe you didn't even finish that candy bar...what a waste.

Pwease don't throw me away! 

Step 11: Take a kitty break.

Seriously? You're taking another break? 

Step 12: Grab all the random, miscellaneous, and uncategorizable paraphernalia that has accumulated in your room and find hiding places for it. This is like a reverse treasure hunt, and can be especially fun six months from now when you clean your room again and discover it all. OMG there's a digital camera in this boot! Fun!

Step 13: Kick out the stowaways. There are WAY too many things in your room that don't belong. You probably didn't even take them in. They were abandoned by evil house gremlins that wish messiness upon you. Why else would you have twelve glasses of half-evaporated water on your nightstand?

Tuck me in please

Step 12: Do fancy things that you would normally never do, like vacuuming, dusting, or making your bed. Hell, spray some fruity air freshener if you want, throw a sprig of lavender on the pillow. Your room will only be this nice for about thirty more minutes, might as well milk it while you can.

The monster is no longer UNDER the bed

And you're done! Good job, you managed to half-ass it just enough to not break a sweat, yet it's clean enough to pass inspection for another month. Now go post unnecessary blogs and videos about this momentous occasion. Go!

What are you gonna be?

You know how you know you are not completely grown up yet? When you have little moments throughout the day, sneaking in out of nowhere, of daydreaming about some totally unrealistic future endeavor. As a ten year old, I thought I would be a famous author by now. As a teenager, I thought I would be married by now. As a college student, I thought I would be miserably adult and living in a confusing swamp of bills and unemployment. 

Turns out, none of my selves were correct, and I'm actually doing quite fine. I have an alright job but it's not a career, I'm living at home, I'm single but too busy to care, and I'm not lost in a sea of anything. But every now and then, either while packing my peanut butter and jelly, or saying goodnight to my stuffies, I have a small glimmer of childish anticipation for something grand. 

"Maybe one day, if I practice hard enough, I can be a famous dancer! It's not too late to take classes. I should probably start with ballet..."

Right. Get on that, would you?

"This will be such a funny video, me reading Maroon 5 lyrics dramatically. I hope it doesn't break Youtube."

Sure, Lindsay, sure. 

On the one hand, it's rather adorable of me to think I'm going to muster up the ambition to do anything beyond laundry this week. If it doesn't pertain to work, survival, or severe vegetation, I'm probably not going to do it. My laziness is so bad that last week I only painted one fingernail. And left it that way. For FOUR DAYS. 

On the other hand, it's quite sad. Because I know I will never be a famous dancer or Youtuber, not that those are things that I would ever seriously consider. The intrinsic value of fame is that it is rare. It may not be always deserved, but it will always be rare. Just based on its definition, not everyone can be famous. It just feels that way now because more "normal" people are getting famous due to the internet and reality TV. I'm sure those people have filled in the gaps of the 300 people that are no longer famous for discovering minerals or inventing cars or doing historical things with their stern faces. 

What is the emotional appeal of fame? Attention equals love? Well, I get plenty of that from my dog, I'm Oprah to him. Living on after death, preserving myself through my name? Well I don't think I ever will die, so that can't be it. Popularity? Maybe. 

It's all a big pissing contest, really. If you've got the most or the best of something, you have value. No one wants to be in the 97% of people that are just cogs, no matter how noble or gratifying it is to just live your own life. Glamour pulls them in, seduces them to the other side of the fence, promises Corn Flakes with caviar, and then leaves them shivering in the gutter - no doubt clutching their brows dramatically and cursing the name of whatever 7th grade teacher said "that kid has moxie."

So I guess one of my goals now will be to ignore the siren song of unrealistic ambition and just aim for that 3rd percentile of normalcy. It's not a low bar by any means, just a well populated one. And it's not even an easy goal compared to fame and fortune, merely a more likely outcome. If my choices are 1) bum on the street, 2) work, live, die, or 3) briefly alert all of humanity that I exist, then fizzle into space like everyone else - the second choice is actually most appealing. 

Why am I writing this? Oh yeah, because I don't actually want to be a ballerina. Sorry, 8-year-old self, but that's just not the path I'm on. It's nice to sit and think about it for a few minutes while I wait for the toaster oven, but only in the same way that I think about how nice it would be to have gills. 

That's a common fantasy for everyone, right? The gill thing? Right along your neck just flapping uselessly, until you hit water and then it's like BAM, you're totally breathing? 

Sigh ya nara