God bless prom season
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No more nachos before bedtime. I could wipe my butt with a snow cone right now.
I think I’m slowly adapting to this whole clean thing. Yeah, I’ve cleaned my place in the past. I’m not Ted Kaczynski for crap’s sake.
You see, kids, Ted Kaczynski was the Unabomber. He lived in a remote cabin in Montana. It didn’t have electricity or running water. Never mind. Just Google it.
But last Thursday could prove to be a turning point.
When I woke up on Friday morning, I started looking for the shorts I wore the night before. This is a common occurrence after a happy hour. And the search usually doesn’t take long. I just reach down to the floor next to the bed until I feel something wet.
But last week was different. Sure, the bed was wet (wink), but my shorts were nowhere to be found. I looked in the normal spots – by the front door, next to the sofa, in the dishwasher.
Nothing.
On a hunch, I looked in my dresser, and there they were – neatly folded. Even my belt was rolled up and put away.
If I cut out the drinking, get married, and wash my clothes on a regular basis, I’ve got a shot at becoming a normal adult.
But who would want to read stories about how I spent the weekend doing laundry and playing Jenga with the neighbors?
Well I never lived the dreams of the prom kings and the drama queens. I’d like to think the best of me is still hiding up my sleeve.