clutter, clutter everywhere and not a drop to drink...yet
September 14, 2003, 8:27 pm

*tap tap* Is this thing on? Yes? Good. You DID read the five questions I answered courtesy of sir spanklin entry already, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU?!?! I'll wait.

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And now back to our regularly scheduled entry. Thanks.

Cleaning my room has always been a 48 hour project for me.

No, seriously.

I can recall being seven and staring at mountains of toys, stuffed animals, and junk from atop my white-eyelet covered bed, wondering how I would ever clean it all before dinner.

I'm glad to see I've never changed.

My sister and I are exchanging rooms now that she's off to college and I still pay a small amount of money to live here; in short, I surely deserve a bigger room with a walk-in closet. I've had to accomplish this task solo as Christina has let the pressure of moving all her stuff and my stuff sit squarely on my shoulders. Bitch.

Anyway, so I'm emptying my tiny closet and shuttling things to the big closet, when a journal falls to the ground. Georgia O'Keefe painting, rainbow handwriting...yeah, it's mine.

I remember this journal; I started it first half of my senior year of college. I open to a random page, dated November 12, 1999:

"So here I am, when I should be cleaning my room, sitting on the floor in my pajama pants with no underwear on, staring at a bunch of stuff I should be picking up and writing. Goddamn, I need to lose some weight."

For the record I was sitting on the floor in my pajama pants with no underwear on and reading the old journal and thinking, "Goddamn, I need to lose some weight."

Nothing like the unfulfilled promise of a few years to make a body wholly, stupendously and completely depressed. I am still 21 years old, I am still 15, and I will be those ages when I'm 30. I cannot break my bad habits because they're so clearly who I am: the room, the pajama pants, the slow cleaning...it's all me.

I'm not such a bad person, really. Lots of people find my messiness endearing.

Take the English department, for example. They LOVE the fact that I no longer have "a" desk, but a small faction of underling desks that I have declared martial law upon with the volume of my important stuff. CNET likes to remind me that he used to have a desk, but now it's an endtable for my purses. He's right.

And take my dad, too. I mean, he loves that I leave my clothes from the day before next to my Jane magazines and last month's Entertainment Weeklys right next to the toilet when he's showing off our house to the football coaches, right? Right?!?!

My room is cluttered, as is my body and my brain.

This is why I'll never be married. No man would want to live in a constant state of clutter. *sigh* Oh well. Maybe I can at least hide a few sex toys in the jumble and no one would ever be the wiser?