I cleaned my room today. I clean only when something really important disappears. I blame my tax forms this time. It was a profound experience, so cathartic that instead of sleeping or doing anything productive I'm sitting here at 3:10 in the morning contemplating how I may have somehow achieved self-actualization through cleaning my room.
My Life: The Pre-Room-Cleaning Years
My bedroom is a disposal unit for the artifacts of my existence. Well, to be fair, it doesn't so much dispose of things as it shuffles them around to make room for more crap. Unless it's something important, in which case I'm pretty sure it actually does dispose of it. (See paragraph about tax forms above.)
If I'm lucky my crap will make room for me in the bed so I can sleep in it. Not always. Some nights there is just too much crap on my bed that it simply refuses to go anywhere and since it was there first I have to sleep on the couch.
When I do get to sleep in my bed I have a tiny little section at the edge. All the springs are busted and dilapidated, so it's kind of like I sleep in a bucket.
To find me in bed with a three-hole punch is not uncommon. I'm far too impractical to just buy the paper with the holes already in it, and one time it exploded and left confetti all over my damn bed.
I found emerald green sparkly underwear in my drawer that I bought almost ten years ago and I have never worn it. I remember buying it, but I really have no recollection of why.
Sometimes I fear clothing I once loved is gone forever to fashion heaven and so I weep and mourn its loss. Then I bury it with six more feet of crap over which I will surely die if I ever lose it.
But my bookshelf, she's a masterpiece! When I gaze up at that majestic tower of perfectly systematized and topically grouped literature it doesn't matter that I haven't seen my floor since I moved in. Fuck, I don't even remember if I have carpeting! Oh bookshelf, you glorious symbol of my OCD soaring high and mightily above my shit.
I wonder if a person's room says a lot about them, what would mine say about me? "This is Ella, she lives in a cesspool, but at least she's literate!"
It's these damn nostalgic tendencies of mine to think that everything reminds me of something that is worth hanging onto, when really if it's worth remembering I'll probably just remember it without having some cheap plastic toy to remind me. Or maybe it's my narcissism that leads me to believe that my life is just that important that I need to keep a copy of it. Perhaps when I get around to cleaning my room I will be at peace and my increased comfort in bed will enable me to sleep more...
My Life: The Post-Room-Cleaning Era
Turns out the other side of the bed is actually flat.
Tax forms are present and accounted for, but my new earrings are still MIA.
I still can't sleep because now that I'm finished cleaning my room I'm busy writing about cleaning my room like it's a defining moment in my life. Sadly I don't think any of life's major underlying crises have been resolved tonight, but evidently I have a pretty sweet hardwood floor.
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