OCD is not an electronica band

With a single exception, I'd like to make a public apology to everyone I've ever lived with. I'm so sorry. You were right. I get it now.

See, G and I threw a barbecue last Sunday and I still haven't cleaned up completely. Burger flippers, serving platters, and ashtrays clog the sink, there are unused plastic goodies --cups and plates and forks-- to find homes for, a cooler full of beer remains outside, and I have yet to rake up the cigarette butts and bring the garbage bags (which are cinched closed, at least) out to the curb. The fridge is overflowing with the pots and pans of food I hastily shoved behind the door on the night of the party (instead of transferring the left-overs to tidy, space-saving tupperware containers), and I haven't even begun to consider getting out the vacuum, even though my feet are black from the mud path that begins at the back door and ends at the bathroom. No, really. My bed isn't even made.
This morning I walked my filthy foots right past a pile of dirty skewers and tongs and thought I'll get to that later, swear to God, without a single hint of nausea or panic, went right ahead and made my tea in fact. I know! Right? I don't know how it happened, when it became possible for me to do such momentous things, but it did. Not only can I see that I will not die if the dishes sit for a day, I will not perish if there is some dirt on the floor, the world will not spiral out of orbit if a knick-knack is out of place or a sock is not properly hampered, I seem to be actually okay with it. At peace. But now that the world of OCD madness I enforced upon you all in my darker days is painfully clear, I, like a recovering alcoholic, realize I have some reparations to attend to.

So I'm sorry. Seriously. I don't know what that was all about. Weird, huh?