Strange things have been happening lately, and I like to blame it on signing a lease. While all of these things, on their own, are more or less completely unremarkable, they point toward a burgeoning sense of responsibility and semi-adulthood that make me entirely uncomfortable. I remember to water my roomate's plant. I've taken up sweeping the floor. I do the dishes. I wake up at nine in the morning at the latest generally, or feel that I've wasted the day. I do laundry (!!!!!) every week. I clean the kitchen, and the bathroom every few days. I take out the trash. I have a day planner that I kind of use. I'm hyper aware of how much electricity is being used at all times.
I've remembered to buy q-tips twice in a row when at the supermarket.
That's maybe the most damning thing of all.
The fridge, though, the fridge makes me feel somewhat more comfortable with myself. Because inside that fridge, you will find the following:
Too old fruit juice my roomate keeps insisting is fine
Fifty million hundred tomatoes (or at least it seems that way)
An eighteen pack of Coors Light
A bottle of wine
In the freezer you will find:
Five cartons of ice cream.
That's right, folks. No milk. No bread. 1 egg. And five cartons of ice cream. I am not quite the terrifying specter of my parents I had begun to think of myself as. No, no. Thank God.