This is Where I Draw the Line.

Friends,

Do I look worried? That's because I am. Oh, I really am. I'm also a little hungry, but what has got me worried is also keeping me out of the room where the hunger gets taken care of.

Earlier this afternoon, I was cleaning my apartment in order to avoid any and all grading, and I got to the kitchen. As I was sweeping under the stove, it came to my attention that there are about four or five inches between the stove and the wall. I leaned in for a closer look. It appears that there are tortillas, tortillas, wedged back there. And, I think, cat food. Cat food.

Now, if I moved in last August, then the tortillas have been there no less than five months, and probably longer. The cat food, well, I met the people who lived here before, and they did not have a cat. If the cat food is from the people before the people before me, doesn't it stand to reason that the tortillas are as well. And whatever else may be lurking that I couldn't see??

I did what any sane person would do and attacked the dark pile of stuff with my broom. But kind of half-heartedly, like I was only going to pull out whatever wanted to be pulled out. Here's what agreed to come out and meet me: the plastic rings that held together some ancient six pack of soda; cat hair; cat kibbles; and something I don't want to tell you about. I don't want to write the word.

I could give a hint. It is teeny-tiny, and it moves (because it is alive), and they're always finding millions of them at the crime scene in any given episode of CSI. Grissolm usually holds one between his tweezers and explains to the audience that its existence proves how or when a person died. And they never travel alone. Ugh.

So I ran. I thought I'd come hang out in the living room, watching Law & Order, and blogging about all the new TV terms I'm learning from my research (like "treatment," "beat," "button," "tag," "act outs," "lead in," "cold open," etc.), but all I can think about is what lurks in there.

Now, I'm all for being an adult. I have a job. I pay my bills (when I remember). I make my own choices (as long as my mom approves). I floss. But this is where I draw the line. I don't want to be an adult about this. I'm not going back into that dark corner to "take care of the problem." I can't handle what I might find. As much as I value independence, and like to question gender norms, I'm calling a boy.

Terrified,
Kendall

PS: Let's remember the old A-P-T in happier times. To your left, I present the offending kitchen, with the stove (and tortillas) conveniently out of the frame.