My bedroom is ground zero.
Seriously, it looks like bombs have gone off in here. The process of getting rid of stuff generates an incredible and daunting amount of mess, because I have to get to the stuff to be gotten rid of. It's like mining. Only instead of mining for gold, I'm mining for crap.
I'm trying to force myself to restrict my reading to the ginormous stack of Books To Be Read on my dresser, rather than returning to the comforting, familiar arms of my re-read favorites; it's the only way I'm getting the many, many books currently restricting access to part of my comic book collection out of the bedroom and onto the shelves where they belong. It's creating some deeply funky topic chains, as I just sort of chew into them from the top downwards. I expect I can keep this up for two, maybe three more volumes before I snap and demand some Stephen King.
Sunil came by yesterday and returned a vast box of borrowed trade paperbacks which I must now return to their shelves. I have a lot of comic books. I mean a lot. And since I acquire more just about every week, this is becoming sort of problematic, space-wise. (This was a light week, as it only saw me come home with the collected Middleman and the first archival hardcover of Creepy. Some weeks are much more dangerous, from a space perspective.)
I keep putting 'take twenty things off the floor' in my planner, and since I add fewer than twenty things to the floor on an average day, keep expecting to see an increase in general cleanliness. (Before you say anything: 'twenty things off the floor' is about the limit of what my back allows me to do. So unless you want to come over and clean my room while I direct you imperiously from the bed, 'do it all at once' is not a viable piece of advice.)
Bah. I live in a bomb crater.
At least it has wireless.
I'm trying to force myself to restrict my reading to the ginormous stack of Books To Be Read on my dresser, rather than returning to the comforting, familiar arms of my re-read favorites; it's the only way I'm getting the many, many books currently restricting access to part of my comic book collection out of the bedroom and onto the shelves where they belong. It's creating some deeply funky topic chains, as I just sort of chew into them from the top downwards. I expect I can keep this up for two, maybe three more volumes before I snap and demand some Stephen King.
Sunil came by yesterday and returned a vast box of borrowed trade paperbacks which I must now return to their shelves. I have a lot of comic books. I mean a lot. And since I acquire more just about every week, this is becoming sort of problematic, space-wise. (This was a light week, as it only saw me come home with the collected Middleman and the first archival hardcover of Creepy. Some weeks are much more dangerous, from a space perspective.)
I keep putting 'take twenty things off the floor' in my planner, and since I add fewer than twenty things to the floor on an average day, keep expecting to see an increase in general cleanliness. (Before you say anything: 'twenty things off the floor' is about the limit of what my back allows me to do. So unless you want to come over and clean my room while I direct you imperiously from the bed, 'do it all at once' is not a viable piece of advice.)
Bah. I live in a bomb crater.
At least it has wireless.