My most recent cleaning binge led me to reassess my long held belief that it’s homier to have things all over the place. Surprisingly, it is nice to have everything neat and tidy, although, I no longer have the convenience to throw anything anywhere without a persist ant feeling of guilt. Remember Mom’s tip that how one takes care of himself and his belongings is a general reflection of how he feels about himself and vise versa. As a self-proclaimed clutterer and a happy-pill recipient, I’ve never had my emotional well being depend on my organizational state. 100mg of Zoloft each morning and I’m relatively pleased wherever anything is.

The craze to clean has not led me to feel accomplished but rather has me restlessly wondering what else there is to do. Once I’ve accounted for the dresser being perfectly parallel to the wall and double checked that my books are indeed organized from tallest to shortest, I’m left standing in the center of my room, feeling lost, and wondering when was the last time I dusted the radiator. My cleaning compulsion does not retire when I leave my house. Waiting for the bus in the evening I notice that the smashed whiskey bottles could really use some good dusting and the single dirty tube sock might need to be ironed. Is this normal? Or am I better off having never folded a pair of pants in the first place?

While missing my old dusty ways, I can affirm that I’ve never been the type of clutterer that hoards, on purpose. Nothing is more satisfying than to throw away Target receipts from three months ago. However, I’ve rarely made it a point to put it in the trash. An outsider might wonder why I have a bank statement from the previous year. I might wonder why it took me twenty minutes to find my keys.

Now that my home is in a temporary state of supreme cleanliness, it’s assuring to know for sure that my towel isn’t growing mold, since I hung it up instead of letting in lie on the floor. In unwritten gay culture, it says homosexuals must all be like Martha: ready to invite a hundred guests over at any moment. If I could be more like Martha and not require 8 hours of sleep a night, I might have already ironed the drapes and flipped the mattresses. I’m feeling happy that my clothes are hung and the carpet is freshly vacuumed, and annoyed that I still need to still wash the baseboards and clean the oven. I’m left sincerely hoping that my love for bleach will not last forever.