My college roommate used to refer to our apartment as “cluttered, not dirty”. Sure, there were piles of paper everywhere and the place stank of cigarettes, but we cleaned well and we cleaned often. At least, relatively speaking.
Along the way, I’ve slid backwards. Living in West Newton my bad housekeeping could have been attributed to the small size of our quarters, but in Eastie, I had no excuse. Hardwood floors, new countertop, plenty of space to spread out and organize, and still. What a mess. When I made jokes about the state of things my friends would nod gravely instead of laughing it off, and at times even Jake seemed offended. I’m not suggesting our apartment was filthy, but let’s just say I learned to filter out the stains on the side of the bathroom sink.
In addition to being a negligent housekeeper, I’m also the kind of person who doesn’t really clean up after herself that well. You can tell I’ve been through a room by the trail of items in my wake: a scarf here, a lipstick there, one shoe then two, or my computer, open and running, on your couch. I think my mother’s at her wit’s end with me, to be honest. I’m trying to improve.
Somehow, though, all this cleaning up after myself has been making me worse instead of better. The clutter that would have been in the rest of the house seems to have migrated to the bedroom I now occupy, and I can barely get around without having to leap over something or other. To make matters worse, my eating patterns have shifted and I’m now lulling myself to sleep every night with a box of cereal in one hand and a Trazodone in the other. Cereal in bed. Hm.
The other night, I pulled back the sheets and found a whole Triscuit.
But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is: I ate it.
Kaia, help me, I’ve crossed the line.
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