I cleaned out my bedroom today.
For years it has been a human sty. Food stuffs and broken items reluctantly coming together under one roof like the different heads of state at the Popes funeral. It was as if a trash volcano erupted in my room, spewing it's noxious filth across my timid sleeping area and, over the years, hardening into unrecognizable mounds taunting me with their superiority.
I could never remember where I placed my bed so, for what feels like a drunken lifetime, I have been sleeping on old milk cartons fashioned into the shape of a Kings Throne. I didn't even use one side of the room because something else lived there and it liked its privacy. It refused to pay rent despite all of the notes I've left under it's door (which was fashioned from dead mice). Every so often I could hear it laughing a bourgeois laugh, coughing violently from the cigars it smoked. I used to find the chewed up butts on my pillow (which was fashioned from old pizza).
It was time for a change. As used as I was sleeping in a sitting position, I would like to be able to swing my dead cat once in a while. So, to the tunes of the Top Gun soundtrack, I got cracking. You know, because I am not going to tackle this without a warm shot of junk.
And this is what I found.
1 copy of Michael Jackson's Thriller on Double Vinyl.
1 bed, which has evolved into a lazy mass of writhing fat.
1 group of mini law students.
5 Plutonium rods.
1 tribe of mini Inca warriors, who had been in a bitter dispute with the mini law students over the rights to some grilled cheese I dropped behind the radiator.
1 virginity. Next time I'm going to bury the motherfucker.
2 crazy Hobos, one male and one female, who keep calling me 'son'.
1 dead cat. Prepare to be swung.
32 bottles of moonshine.
4 buckets of coal.
1 bloody glove from when I was in Brentwood, L.A. ten years ago.
1 betamax player.
1 nineteenth century stool used for milking cows.
1 set of keys to a 1967 VW van.
1 suicide note written by 'Michael Sedgwick'.
3 Tear-stained love letters addressed to Claudia Cardinale.
There is more, but to acknowledge it's existence would mean Crazyville, USA for me.
Anyway, since I have cleaned my room, I have reluctantly come to realize that there are too many bad memories literally living there. So, I have elected just to burn my house down and start again. As a result I am living out of a box, under a bridge with a troll named 'Fuck Stuffer'.