My apartment is a total disaster

For some reason, I slept in my office last night.

The “some” reason being my bedroom is covered in clothes. COVERED. How did I ever acquire so many clothes when I just donated two giant boxes of them six months ago? Ughh…

Anyway, I slept in my office on my velvet green fold-out couch and two super duper warm blankets I got for Christmas and my birthday. One of them is weighted and the other is super fluffy. (Side note: I’m super excited to sleep tonight.) I fell into a deep, deep sleep. I have no idea what I dreamt, and it would be boring to describe anyway, but I have faint memories of it and it makes me happy. So I’m planning on sleeping in my office again.

I came in here right now to start getting ready for sleep and laughed. How did I miss that this room is also a mess? My floor, desk, table, AND FOLD OUT COUCH are all being weighed down by piles of books, magazines, pens, and journals. So if we wanted to get analytical about this, we could describe these rooms as clear definitions of my personality: a vain bookworm.

Or call it what it is: obsessive.

Because before the mess of these two rooms these past two weeks, they were pristinely organized each evening and morning and tidied up so you’d think I had no clothes or interests.

Yesterday, I found myself wishing I still had a set of Encyclopedias. Remember those? We actually had two sets growing up (one was a children’s version) and a set of medical encyclopedias, and a set of the Annals of America. We also had a collection of, I think it was like, “Greatest Literature in the World” or something that had stories like the Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka and Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain and Moby Dick by Hermann Melville. Did I mention I was like 10, when I started reading these? This was mostly out of boredom but have you ever read the Metamorphosis??? It’s freakin’ weird as an adult, and beyond strange for a ten year old. I kinda remember my mom yelling at my dad for buying them but I don’t think any of us realized that those books would be the things that the strange child they’d created would read. (Breaking news: I just found out my parents got rid of all the books during a recent cleaning out of a storage unit — waaahhhh…)

I forgot where I was going with this but I have something to say about that book I re-wrote and I finally figured out why I hate it and why you shouldn’t take people’s advice even if you deeply admire them.

But I’ll save that for another day.

Okay, good night.

my blankets are calling me…