Look at this woman. Look at her. I love her. I want to marry her. Who is she? I’ll tell you. This is Marie Kondo. Have you heard of her? Now you have. She is the author of The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. She is the star of Netflix sensation Tidying Up with Marie Kondo where she helps people learn how to clean up their shit physically and spiritually. This week, inspired by the love of my life, I attempted to Tidy Up.

I started in Peirce. Determined not to put anything inside of myself that did not spark joy, I contemplated each menu item and placed my hands on my stomach like a woman caressing her pregnant womb. “Will this spark joy?” I asked myself. “Will this grilled buffalo chicken sandwich spark joy?” No, it will not. “Will this pasta and marinara spark joy?” Negative. In the end, I had myself a meal of soft-served ice cream and sauteed spinach. Marie Kondo would probably say something like, but doesn’t it bring you joy to know that you’re sustaining yourself and eating healthy? I say that nuance is too much for this gal to handle.

In my room, I held up each article of clothing discarded across my floor and asked the same joy-sparking question. I was left with twenty pairs of socks, two pairs of jeans and a sweater. I now no longer wear underwear. I thanked each rejected piece of clothing for the time we spent together and dumped that shit in the trash along with most of my textbooks, old food in my fridge, and a bill from Mount Vernon Hospital collections.

After a week of this Marie Kondo-ing, my life became blissfully barren. I dropped friends, skipped classes, I’m actually no longer enrolled at this school. I have also decided to throw out the entire month of February.

I love Marie Kondo. I really do. But sometimes late at night, surrounded by my lack of things, I hold myself in the mirror of my compact concealer. “Does this spark joy?” I whisper to myself, staring at the one piece of trash I’ll never truly be able to take out. “Does this spark joy?”