The first time I heard of spring cleaning, I took the phrase quite literally. The springs were dirty, they had to be cleaned.
Don’t you dare laugh at me. You weren’t that bright when you were six either.
Anyway, I quickly learnt that it just meant to clean really really hard. Grammar experts will say that I need to use the word thoroughly but really hard works too. It sounds vigorous. Stern. Powerful. Like something that most men have in the morning. Cleaning that screams out, “This is Sparta!”
Forgive me. I’m writing this in the morning and it’s really hard.
So, spring cleaning. Eve and I were cleaning up a weekend or two ago. We wanted to begin the year on a … clean slate.
We wanted to begin the year without clutter. So we cleaned and by we this time I mean she. She dusted and mopped and wiped and scraped. All I did was lift furniture and tell jokes. She did not appreciate the jokes I told but I told them anyway because the vows we took were for better or worse and by Jove, she must love me through these random utterances.
She laughed at some of them, although, there was one that made her hit me with the mop. I can’t recall which one it was but I have to use it again just coz.
In the kukurukakara of cleaning, Eve found this book that I had been hiding for the last 12 years.
Why was I hiding it? Well, in Form 3 (that’s 11th grade to the people who don’t use the metric system), I was supposed to use this book to take notes for my Physics class. Turns out I had an extra one that had no purpose and that became my Physics notebook, this one was for randomness. Another random fact, I used to … read?… do people read Atlases? I used to read/study/ stare at the Atlas during preps. It helped me daydream, don’t judge me. One night though, at prep time I was done with my usual scanning of the geographical maps and took out this particular green square-ruled book and started writing.
I had a story to tell. Not mine, because I’m not that interesting, but a story nonetheless. My blue biro and I went on an adventure. All those random maps I studied? They went in the story despite my never being anywhere near a place like Corsica. But I went there in prose and you can’t take that away from me.
It was a fine story at the time, I suppose. A lot of random dudes in my class “borrowed” it (which explains why it looks like it has seen the ravages of war). They enjoyed the thing too because they urged me to finish it.
I did not finish it but I do remember how it was supposed to end. The cliffhanger was epic.
But that was 12 years ago. Babies born then are in their awkward prepubescent stages now. They are tweens. Both genders are just beginning to be fascinated by boobs. Boobs are powerful things, children. Hair is starting to sprout from places they never thought hair could sprout. Voices are breaking. Sweat is becoming stinkier. Dreams are wet.
And just like those tweens, this story is super awkward to read. I looked at the first few lines and almost passed out. Dear Jesus, how could you let me write this? Wololo!
I would like to take this opportunity to say that I am not where I want to be as a writer but thank the Lord God Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, that I am not where I used to be because damn! I’m going to need some time to disassociate myself from my 16-year-old self’s literary work so I can rewrite it. But right now, this work looks like a group of pandas. Google a group of pandas, you’ll understand what I mean.
And if a group of pandas could kill, I’d be so dead.