Author’s note: this is not a short story, but merely a personal rant. I’m not feeling creative today. Sue me.
(Author’s note: please don’t sue me.)
This past weekend, I visited the apartment of one of my cousins, who is married, living in New York, owns an adorable little dog, wears hats and somehow manages to look incredibly fashionable in them, and is, in general, doing much better at life than I am. Upon entering his apartment, I was struck by one single question, powerful and overriding all others.
How in the world does he keep his apartment so clean??
Yes, that question deserved the double question marks. Now that I am back home in my own apartment, I look around and see that I am surrounded by filth. How does he do it?
I have cleaned before. And I have even gotten my room to look spotless and amazing, similar to how his apartment seems. However, even a day or two later, things have begun to decline, to go downhill. First, it’s a shirt that I only wore for half a day, and isn’t ready for the laundry bin yet. I can’t fold up this shirt, so I merely set it on a chair, ready to be worn again. One shirt sitting out isn’t so bad.
After that comes a book or two. Well, I just got back from the library with a half dozen books, but I don’t want to put them on my bookshelf, or I will forget them forever and won’t get around to reading them. I know! I’ll make a nice, neat little stack here on the floor. That way they are visible and I will definitely get around to reading them.
Oh, look, some papers that I was working on! Those are important. I’m not done editing those. I will set them right next to my bed, so that when I go back to editing them, I can reach over and pick them right up. Yes, that is a good spot.
Next thing I know, my room is filled with random items, and I need to play a complicated game of hopscotch in order to get to my dresser in the morning. I don’t think of myself as a messy person, but it seems that my living space is determined to prove me wrong. Even more annoying is the fact that, whenever I go to clean my room, I realize that there are many other, more important things that I should be doing. Like looking at pictures of cats on the internet.
Every now and then, when I do realize that there are only two square feet of carpet still visible in my room, I will go on a cleaning binge. Away go the clothes! Begone, stray dishes! Back to the shelves, you books! Hiyah! I really ought to be using a pitchfork. An hour later, my room is spotless, and I can lie back in contentment.
Of course, this lasts for a good day or so before I’m leaving out an article of clothing again, thinking that “just one won’t hurt.”
And, as may be obvious by the subject of this post, I am writing this in an attempt to procrastinate instead of cleaning my room.