Dear Marigold,

I am on a lifelong mission to get rid of clutter and organize my living environment. I have read several books on the subject so I know the standard advice but just cannot seem to actually do it because I don't like doing what they tell me. I have to be me. Do I have to just roll with it and accept that I will always have hella clutter and make the best of it or is there hope for me yet? I'm 33.

- Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

Of course you don’t have to do anything some dumb bourgeois book tells you to.  Normally you would, but this time you get a free pass because it’s your Jesus year.  Being exactly 6 weeks into my Jesus year, I can confirm the splendor.  One time, I turned water into wine after I drank way too much and got sick and blacked out for awhile, and then all the water I drank after that totally tasted like wine.  And I wasn’t even trying!  Also, people regularly accost me on the street and try to give me their babies and wallets and things because it’s pretty obvious that I have a gift for dispensing wise and charitable counsel.

Anyway, as crotchety old men have been telling us for centuries, Jesus lived to be 33 years old and performed his fanciest magic tricks during that year.  So this pretty much means the pressure is on, Anon.  Time to get your shit together, as Jesus would say.  A cluttered home is the sign of a cluttered mind, so get yourself one of those big wall calendars and make some lists and take some ginkgo biloba and shit.  Or, you could hire someone to clean up after you, especially if your mom has long since resigned.  There are multitudes of unemployed, starving people everywhere – look under bridges, in refrigerator boxes, and in crack houses for people that can be very fast at things like organizing, throwing stuff out, and seizuring.  Alternately, if you’ve got some kind of social disorder or grow faint at the thought of undesirables mucking about in your underwear drawer, just bundle your most prized possessions and maybe a PB&J or two in a kerchief, tie that to the end of a table leg or something, and kill the rest with fire.  Hit the open road!  Venture forth on a majestic adventure!  But if you’re fussy about keeping your legs, I recommend that you avoid railcar-hopping.  And probably hitchhiking.  And swimming in the ocean.  Also large dogs.  And preaching loftily to large groups of people, because we all know how that’s going to turn out.  Carpe diem, Anon!  The silver isn’t going to polish itself, you know.

Dear Marigold,

I can't stop eating paste.  It was cute in kindergarten but now my family has to hide me in the closet at Thanksgiving to save our guests from witnessing this disturbing act of ungodly behavior.  I don't want to feel guilty about my love of paste (they sweeten and flavor it, for Christ's sake!  They knew what they were doing.) but it seems I'm the local leper now.  Should I go to AA (or the equivalent, PEA, for paste eaters) or is it really so wrong to enjoy the sweet manna of craft hour?

- Savoring in Savannah

Dear Savoring,

Before you fling yourself off a cliff, you should know that some of the world’s most illustrious and well-known figures were paste-eaters.  True story.  Caligula, Robespierre, Rasputin, Ceausescu, L. Ron Hubbard, Ralph Wiggum?  All connoisseurs of adhesive delights.  So worry not, Savoring, there’s probably some kind of secret ingredient in paste that activates the Greatness Potential DNA sequence, plunging you forth into the grand and fearsome face of your strawberry-flavored manifest destiny.

The only part of your situation that concerns me, though, is the closet-dwelling.  Are you enjoying yourself in there?  Is it serene and pleasant, with silk cushions, a controlled climate, and some nice ferns?  Is there a secret passage to the basement where you manufacture amphetamines? Because unless you’re trapped in the closet R. Kelly style, you need to take a stand and draw your family a detailed atlas describing exactly where they can stick it, with what appliance, and for how long.  What if you were born with four elbows or latent werewolvian tendencies or a knack for pooping gold at inopportune times?  Would they strap you to a slow-moving conveyer belt/table saw apparatus, set out a pair of armed doofuses, and lock you in the tower?  It’s time to pounce confidently from the closet, paste-gobbler, and proudly claim your culinary identity.  Demand acceptance from your family or woe to them that bar the way of the drunk and resolute!  Let’s not forget that you’re the one with the magical paste powers, after all.

Oh and also?  Since paste is pretty much only flour and water and whatever that minty shit is they toss in to make it taste like rainbows, you might try slapping together your own homemade recipe.  That way you can season and color and shape it however you like and start an award-winning recipe blog and write bestselling cookery books and make millions to fund your revolution.  But don’t forget to eat your fruits and vegetables because no one likes a paste-eater with scurvy.

Dear Marigold,

Why was Ferris Bueller’s sister such a bitch?

- Bdawk in Boston

Dear Bdawk,

The answer is simple.  Jeanie was super jealous of Ferris’s mad computer skills and also she did a lot of cocaine.  Like, a LOT of cocaine.  It’s unfortunate, really, because she had so much potential to be awesome, what with her shiny new wheels, principal ass-kicking skills, and ability to attract a hot, young, and totally strung-out Charlie Sheen.  But, like many young women today, Jeanie allowed school to get in the way of her education and thus became super pissed off and a wee bit overzealous.  Also she had rich assholes for parents and a snot-nosed younger brother with a creepy grin and a dreary girlfriend that always looked like she was about ready to burst into tears.  I’m surprised that poor Jeanie didn’t end up as a prostitute for Disney or something, especially after that nose job.

Anyway, as my friend Lila says, all the world’s problems can be solved with more tampons and masturbation.  Clearly all Jeanie needed was a box of Tampax and a little more alone time, probably.  And maybe a drug counselor.  And some friends.  And some kickass electronics. Either way, I’m willing to bet that Ferris, spoiled as he was, got so used to people doing things for him that he wound up fat, bald, and alone with a debilitating internet porn addiction, heaps of car loan debt, and fucking face syphilis.  So let that be a lesson to you, Bdawk.  Get your ass up off the couch, stay away from cocaine, and also don’t be such a prick to people.  Unless someone thinks it’s funny and gives you an advice column.