I’m sitting here contemplating cleaning my room. Sadly, it’s just the contemplating part and not the actualizing part, which I hear in self-help circles is the way to go.
Still haven’t unpacked. Dirty clothes flung in one pile. Clean ones are still in the basket. Shoes are everywhere. Papers have migrated from desk to floor to bookcases. My keys have a bowl they sit in; they’re laying next to my computer. I have a spot for my phone – it’s on top of my wallet. Somewhere.
Cables for every tech gadget I own are creating their own slithering patchwork of horror on my desk.
I get in a tizzy when my room gets like this. It’s fun for about a day or so. Oh, I think, I can be the hip girl that is just too damn cool to organize her room. She just swirls in and out of her room, like the wind, retrieving things at random and look at ease with the Zen of it all. She reeks of a patchouli and all the skirts that she owns are in pools of graceful piles all over the floor right on top of her skinny jean and vinyl Dylan albums. Her make-up is a gross experiment on the window sill, but she still looks amazingly well done even if her gaze is far away and detached.
With the same reality in where I cannot pull off the bed-head look, this figment of a girl is unobtainable to me and it’s probably better that way.