I Might Have Used Too Much Bleach

Preston and I spent today deep cleaning the apartment. Off the top of my head, I can think of about 1,075,875,982 things I would rather have done than deep clean the apartment. A deep cleaning, however, was long overdue. LONG overdue. Don't get me wrong--I'm a neat person and generally our apartment stays pretty tidy (except that God forbid I ever put my clothes away. Preston and I are both big pilers, and by the end of the week, there are two mini-mountains on either side of the room where we've piled high the clothes that aren't really dirty but that we really have no desire to put away. And every so often we'll each look at the pile and say "We've really got to stop doing this." And then we return to ignoring it until I get all nutty and go on a cleaning rampage). ANYWAYS, so aside from my inability to hang anything back in the closet, I like to keep the apartment clutter-free and generally organized.

Deep cleaning, on the other hand, is something I've always hated and which I avoid at all costs (really, who likes deep cleaning?). I hate getting down on my hands and knees to scrub grime off of cabinets. I hate cleaning underneath the radiators and finding colonies of dust bunnies underneath wing chairs. I hate scrubbing that little place between the faucet knobs on our bathroom sink that are always SO gross and which I can never get really really perfectly clean. And that is what I spent today doing.

And I know that it was totally necessary and that I'll, one day, be glad I decided to deep clean the stove, but at the moment, I'm exhausted, my hands smell like Bleach (in fact, our whole bathroom smells so strongly of Bleach that I think I might have gotten a little high when I walked in just now), I still haven't finished putting my clothes away, or filing my papers, or doing the eighty-five thousand things I'm supposed to have done before leaving for VA next week, and just SIGH. I need a nap. Or a drink. Or both.