QUEER EYE FOR THE QUEER GUY WANTED...
I just spent four hours cleaning a 40 square foot bedroom. Okay... maybe it's 80 square feet. I'm a gay man, so I have license to be dramatic.

In any event, I think so gross that I think I'll have to break up with myself.

I wish I had a good excuse. A physical disabilty, say... or some tactile disorder that didn't allow me to sense that grit was building up on my window sills. (I live in a second-floor apartment in Manhattan, with no AC, so grit does build up.)

But, no, I'm strictly a victim of my own laziness. I've known this bedroom was an embarrassment for months, and I found every excuse to avoid dealing with it. After all, no one uses it but me (and my boyfriend, in rare cameos). Who would ever know?

I knew. And that knowledge was not a good thing.

My promise to myself from this point on is this: I will clean. I will live like a normal human being. I will not let my bedroom again come to resemble a clogged catch basin.

(And if I fall behind in any of these pledges, and you're fortunate enough to see my bedroom, please don't remind me of what I just typed. Otherwise, cleaning is your job.)