Perhaps it’s a sign of apocalypse.

Perhaps it’s some sort of demonic janitorial possession.

Either way I look at it, something is definitely up. See, I’m not big into the whole housework deal. Actually, that’s sort of an understatement. I pretty much resent the fact that I have to clean up after myself, so, well…sometimes I just, don’t.

But some otherworldly force has taken over this slovenly vessel and for the last thirteen days I’ve been on a cleaning binge the likes of which I have yet to experience. I jest not. It started as a simple “straightening up,” progressed into a “scrubbing the baseboards and floor tiles of each room in the house on my hands and needs with a sponge and scrub brush,” and has evolved into a “have to run to the store to buy a new toothbrush because I used my current one to remove mildew from elusive cracks and crevices in my bathroom” sort of obsession. I’ve washed so many loads of laundry that I’m no longer sure whether I’m really washing dirty garments or simply washing the same clean ones over and over again. I wonder what my landlord is going to think when he sees my water bill this month? I’ve become so obsessed that I’ve been skipping dinner on more than one occasion. Sometimes I even forget that I’m a hard-core smoker and go hours without lighting up. Tonight it will probably take me two hours to haul all of my trash to the curb, which concerns me only because it will take away from time I plan to spend taking down and soaking all of my blinds, washing windows, and washing walls. Even the dogs are suffering. I’ve taken to brushing them outside when it’s snowing so that they don’t shed all over my clean floors. I won’t let them in the house until I’ve wiped and dried their paws. Tonight I’ll also be going grocery shopping, and will only purchase food that can in no way damage the sparkling interior of my refrigerator. I assembled my brand new carpet scrubber yesterday, and plan to attack the carpets before midnight.

Friends are calling out of concern. The skin is peeling off of my hands from chemical exposure, and I’m pretty sure that the smell of bleach has not only burned all of the hair out of my nostrils but has also caused permanent brain damage. I’m sort of starting to wonder when this will let up. I’m fully expecting a thousand-mile stare to set in. Perhaps I’ll end up wandering the streets all hours with a scarf on my head, a bucket of cleaning supplies in one hand and a feather duster in the other, mindlessly cleaning the exteriors of neighboring houses whose owners think I’m too creepy to let me inside.

Scary.

I’m starting to think that this journal title would make a great story title, but there’s no way I can write it. It will interfere with my cleaning.