CRUISE CONTROL FOR COOL.

So, I am one of those people who is easily amused by anything in capslock. You could probably be like "THE PRESIDENT HAS BEEN ASSASSINATED," and I would be laughing my ass off and then probably be like, "...wait, what."

Except "assassinated" is still a fucking hilarious word, so I'd still be laughing even through national crisis, but I'm a terrible person, so you probably shouldn't take me too seriously when it comes to things like life-altering events.

Anyway, the point of this is that I hate cleaning, and probably the number one way to make me not take it seriously is to write in caps on a post-it note: "UNLOAD" and then stick it to the dishwasher. Mostly I will look at the note perplexedly because I have encountered it before my coffee, and likely I will forget about it until I wander into the kitchen four hours later. It doesn't help when these things are written on post-its shaped like lime-green apples.

Cleaning and I have a love-hate relationship. I love the end effect, mostly that I can see my floor and have mugs to drink out of, but at the same time, there is actual work and effort involved, both of which I am firmly against. Every time (once a month, which I suppose is a good track record!) I manage to get into a super-cleaning ADULT MODE ACTIVATE session, arm myself with seventeen trash bags and a can of Pledge, and get to gettin'.

This lasts for approximately a day and a half, after which I realize that the laundry basket is two feet too far away from where I dispose of my pants (re: the floor), and that the dishwasher doesn't start itself, but the computer is there, and so is the internet, and WHO KNOWS WHAT WILL HAPPEN IN THE FIVE MINUTES IT WILL TAKE TO LOAD DISHES AND CLEAN THEM.

So, in the interest of making sure I miss nothing on the internet, I end up writing a blog post about cleaning. But it's 11PM and no one worth their salt ever cleans after eight, at the latest, so I can comfortably say I can put off until tomorrow what I had planned on doing today.

And by "tomorrow," I very clearly mean, "next week."

I'm pretty sure my Surviving Until Age 24 award should probably be revoked. Until they come to pry it from my cold, dead fingers, I'll be reading a webcomic archive or something.