Spring Cleaning My Brain

Since it’s almost June, I’ve finally gotten around to spring cleaning my apartment–throwing out rotting five year-old paint cans, crushing dust bunnies to death with new pieces of water stain-concealing furniture, plucking the ol’ jean shorts and fedora out of my plastic bin o’ summer clothes inspired by Britney Spears circa 2007. But even an organized closet and a sparkling clean floor smelling of Swiffer Wet Jet (and tasting suspiciously devoid of Magic Shell) doesn’t seem to be doing anything for my stress levels. So I’ve decided to spring clean my head.

Herewith, a list of things I need to stop devoting significant brain space to:

• My America’s Next Top Model fantasy league. Just because someone gets points for crying and calling themselves “fierce” doesn’t make it right.
• Passive-aggressively tallying the frequency of my upstairs neighbors’ post-11 pm Rock Band sessions. No one cares about this except you, inner Tracy Flick.
• Wondering if anyone else has ever found a white pube.
• Elaborate fantasies involving dance performances set to Madonna’s Immaculate Collection and witnessed by my entire sixth grade class.
• Mentally casting my biopic (clear your schedule, Alison Brie!)
• Trying to Care Bear Stare adult rompers out of the zeitgeist.
• Secret smugness that I’m totally a Carrie. EVERY bitch thinks they’re a Carrie. My credit card debt and that fuchsia Betsey Johnson miniskirt I bought while drunk do not make me special. (*Buuuut, now I have to devote more space to the fact that I never realized fuchsia was spelled that way. Fuck-sia? Really?)
• Trying to decode the aggravatingly mysterious Facebook status updates of unstable friends without feeding their need for attention by responding with a question mark.
• Wondering how many chin hairs it takes to officially qualify as a bearded lady.
• Elaborate fantasies constructed around plausible reasons why I might be performing jazz standards in front of John Krasinski, draped across a piano a la Michelle Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys.
• Debating whether, if there is a God, He cares if someone once wrote “fuck” on the forehead of her Jem doll, and only went to church for a year in college when she was dating a boy who loved Jesus, or if He might grant that person her wish for bundles of unearned cash without judgment.
• Vajazzling: A) Why? B) Shouldn’t it be spelled “Vagazzling?”
• Guilt over putting my Pound Puppy Harold in the communal dryer at my dorm freshman year, where he lost an eye, and his dignity (I was stoned, and now he’s probably rotting in my mom’s basement, and in conclusion I am a terrible person).

OK, since I have now unloaded my cobwebbed brain boxes onto you like so many old McDonald collectibles at a sad, empty yard sale, I’m ready to receive whatever inanities YOU need to stop storing between your ears. Let it out, people. I want to see those cerebral cortexes shining like the top of the Chrysler building!