My pigsty

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Six years ago I moved into my junior one-bedroom home. I was thrilled to finally be living alone. No more roommates. No more compromise. If I wanted to sit on the couch and eat Häagen Das in my underwear, I could.

At the time, the apartment fit me like a glove. It was the perfect size with room for growth. I moved in with:

  • my queen-sized canopy bed
  • a small end table
  • an IKEA entertainment center
  • a glass covered coffee table
  • a beat-up old couch
  • a small dinette set
  • 2 bookcases crammed with books
  • a vanity with chair
  • a microwave oven
  • an eclectic CD collection
  • about a dozen VHS tapes and
  • one flat screen 27″ television

Today my dinette table is hidden beneath seven towering stacks of books. Six 5-shelf bookcases line the walls of the living “area.” Matted black and white photos hang on every available square inch of wall space. Files are piled on my hard wood floor beside the vanity that now doubles as my “office.”

Not to mention the two suitcases I carried home from Christmas are still unpacked and standing in the small entryway. The DVDs are overflowing out of the entertainment center. And I’ve still got a small area devoted to wrapping paper and ribbon and scotch tape and scissors.

How did I let this happen? My bachelorette pad is a complete mess.

This morning, the agent who manages my apartment phoned to say she’d like to drop by sometime next week to inspect the apartment on behalf of my landlord. It’s been a few years since she popped in, and she just wants to make sure nothing needs fixing or an upgrade.

How thoughtful.

So now I have no choice but to organize the pigsty I call home. In six days. S-I-X! And I don’t know where to start. It’s that bad.

How did I accumulate so much STUFF?


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