s an unmarried man who works really hard, travels a ton, and leads an active social life, I’ve come to accept several less-than-awesome realities about my daily existence. (For starters: I eat way too much take-out, I’m constantly forgetting my toothbrush on trips, and these days, I could probably consume a few less sugary cocktails.) But if there’s one piece of man-on-the-go collateral damage I simply can’t accept, it’s the increasingly gnarly state of my apartment. In recent months, I’ve found myself engaged in a daily battle against the black hole of my storage closet, the mountain of mismatched
