It really is amazing how much useless shit I acquire over the course of a couple of years, or ever really, and how my bedroom can go from clean-to left-behind-post Apocalypse in just under two weeks. It’s really more than general messiness-it’s a state that encompasses so much more than untidiness-there is something cosmic and mysterious about my bedroom. Like, the chaos brings order somewhere else-somewhere important.
I admit, I am a messy, unorganized person- like the dirty kid from Peanuts-there seems to be a cloud of swirling papers, dust, and missing socks that follow me around wherever I go, and I am in the eye of the storm. I walk into a room, and it feels messy. things fall off the wall-magazines disorganize themselves, bits of papers fly off the wall and collect, and things spill. In ancient times-I’d be some sort of high priestess-contained in a cave in a mountain somewhere- housewives would come and sacrifice goats and wine to me, perhaps really hot roman cabana boys would bring me plates of ambrosia-but no-in these modern days-I am just a thirty year old with a messy bedroom, who can never find a pair of socks that matches.
When I was in the fifth grade- I remember writing a story about it-a fairytale- in which I cleaned my bedroom for years and years, until underneath my bed, protected by the talking skeleton of a gas man-I discovered a vast, new kingdom that also had to be cleaned.
