I like to pretend, but let’s not: I am so very messy, and it is starting to get on my nerves.
I live in a smallish, three bedroom apartment, with little furniture, and few other items, so there isn’t really much space to mess things up, but it becomes another story when you liken a floor covered in dirty clothing to carpeting.
I just don’t “get” clean people. How do they find the time and space for all their crap? I thought that clean people just had less said “crap” to deal with, that it was an issue of hording, but one furniture-less, expansive apartment later and I am still finding garlic in my laundry (4 surious).
Perhaps things would be easier if I knew this would be my home forever, but it is just a temporary dwelling, and one underemployed year later, I have little motivation for any home improvement. (i.e. why waste 8000yen on a couch when you can work out your haunches by squatting in from of your computer everyday? why by a folder when your floor makes for easy access filing?)
My workload seems of little consequence; I am barely working five days a week, and yet the dust bunnies who greet me in my open closet grow bigger by the day.
A constant tide of garbage and filth is threatening to engulf my every move, and no matter how I try to quell that tide, things are just made worse. To be human, to be me, is to be devoured by one’s weaknesses. Laziness is defeat.
And yet, there is a comfort in the ever evolving smells of a neglected bag of trash. In the daydreams of a lover who will prove themselves worthy by spending a night on my futon. in the robustness of an immune system evolving to meet the challenges of its environment.
The late afternoon whiff of a musty, sweaty private place no one calls home but me. This is what will be lost. This is what I must weep for as a set about to scrubbing the floor.
you found garlic in your laundry?