That's it.
I've officially turned into Friends' Monica Gellar.
I woke up this morning to find the house I've been left in-charge of [my parents are on their 20th anniversary trip] in a post-hurricane state. Clothes were outside the washing machine instead of in it, placemats were on the coffee table in the living room and my parents' bed was unmade and the room was in disarray. Without having to whip up my Sherlock magnifying glass, I went to my brother's room with the clear intention of wringing his neck to find him gone.
Stupid annoying 15-year-old bastard.
Of course, unlike my Mom, I refuse to clean up after the boy. So still stressed out from the sight of the house, I started cleaning my room.
The only problem is my room is already very clean. Clothes in my wardrobe are arranged according to colour, my CDs alphabeticized, DVDs & VCDs arranged according to genre then alphabeticized, you get the idea.
So I rearranged my books in a tallest-to-shortest manner [before they were arranged according to the author's surname], reorganised my magazines according to titles then to their respective month and mopped my room.
Five minutes ago, I was triumphant. Now, I'm just weirded out by my weirdness.
Crazy fuck.