My Life Is A Mess

And by life, I just mean apartment.
As I glance around the room, I see that I've left the cutting board on the kitchen chair. Again. The pan of last night's mac and cheese is still on the stove. My desk is covered in papers, tissues, and index cards. And the floor? There's a candy wrapper there, lying very close to a band-aid wrapper, and not too far away from my gianormous biochem binder, smack dab in the middle of the walkway, the biggest safety hazard/stumbling block to hit the road since, well, whatever else people crash into.

But soon, everything will be cleared out. There'll be no trace that I was ever here. (Except for the door frame, of course, where I'll declare that I heart JC with a pocket knife engraving. And perhaps the desk. And bedpost. And wherever there's wood available.)