May sucked. (I know that’s just, like, my opinion, man … maybe it went better for you.)

Mine was rainy. And I celebrated my 100th birthday. (Is that the one where you get paper, diamonds or dust? I can’t remember.)

But the thing that made me wanna punch May in the face was the fact I had three massive, unrelated projects due within a week of each other.

At the start of the month-long grind, friends would text saying they were headed out for a brew and I’d reply: “Fiddlesticks! I gotta work. 🙁 Have one for me, though! XOXO!”

Two weeks in, it was: “Working. I’ll drink when I sleep.”

In the final days, I had to fight not to write: “Cool. I’ll meet you at that new bar on the corner of I’mStillWorkingYouAsshat and JamIt. 8 good for you?”

Not surprisingly, my attitude wasn’t the only thing that took a nosedive.

Now that I’m exactly 24 hours away from The Deadline, I’ve had a chance to see things outside the glow of the computer. It ain’t pretty.

My hair looks like it was styled by an angry flock of birds, the dishes and laundry are piled in disturbingly high stacks and I’m going to have to work a little too hard to figure out which plastic Target bags are filled with unopened toiletries and which are filled with trash. (Yes, I’m pretty. We’ve discussed this.)

Weirdly, my place doesn’t yet smell like a frat house. That’s a distinct stank, a special mixture of cigarettes, underarms, stale beer soaked into the carpet padding, urine, boy socks, and balloons. (If you don’t know what might produce a balloon smell, you need to practice safer sex.)

I know that smell, well, because I lived in a frat house for a month once. I needed a place for a few weeks and my buddy suggested I take one of the empty rooms at his frat.

“The location is great, the rent is like $200 … the smell might get to you, but just leave the windows open.”

Matt wasn’t kidding. The walls were white — underneath pictures. Doorways were stacked with laundry. After noticing ancient, dried Ramen on the ceiling, petrified gunk on every cupboard and grease stains of various ages slathering everything, I decided to eat out that month.

The bathrooms we won’t speak of.

As I moved my things into the house — the hallway carpet making wet, squishing sounds underfoot into the bedroom where snot goblins were strategically placed on the wall at bed height (yes, I’m for-realing you) — I reminded myself it was for a month, and that I’d spend that month mostly outside.

When I finally moved across town into the apartment I’d been waiting to open up, I swore never to willfully live in filth like that again. And yet here I am on the precipice of putridity. (Incontheivable!)

Thankfully, the May deadlines ended just shy of a hopeless housekeeping backslide.

Roaches do not skitter madly away when I flick the lights on suddenly, the carpet doesn’t squish (I can even see parts of it) and the house only smells of stale cake, smoke and shame.

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