(no subject)
I've been feeling pretty bizarre lately -- n-n-o-o-o-t necessarily depressed, but certainly off-kilter -- so I spent all of last night and today cleaning and rearranging my place. I washed all of the questionably-clean clothes that've been lying around in a system of heaps aptly titled Mount Laundry; I didn't even realize how many damn clothes I own. I of course refuse to let anything go, so I've got an array of items in just about every size you can imagine. I moved my bed, washed my filthy sheets (I drool a lot, ok?), wiped down the bathroom counters, and cleaned out the fridge. When I finished removing all the rotten vegetables and sweaty tupperware, I went to the grocery store and replenished our supply of victuals. Once I did all of that I swept, cleaned all the junk out of my car, and made sense out of my insufferable excess of shoes, belts, purses, and scarves.
Anyway, it made me feel better. Whenever I get around to reconfiguring my environment, I can start organizing my mental processes and assessing my feelings. I also achieve this strange inner peace and feeling of control over my surroundings. It's nice. It helps me not to think about the millions of things that are bugging the hell out of me. Actually, I think it prepares me mentally and emotionally to tackle some of the less obvious issues that rankle me -- you know, the things you can't exactly attack with a broom and dustpan.
My dad called me yesterday to tell me he read my submission for the review, and that it made him really sad. I told him I was sorry, I wasn't sad when I wrote it and I wasn't trying to make anyone else sad for reading it. I told him he worries a lot and that's why all his whiskers are turning gray, and he said he was proud of me. I can't take a fucking compliment, even from my father. I just bumble through it and try to explain it away. Like most things, really. I should write a book about how to avoid being happy at all costs.
Anyway, it made me feel better. Whenever I get around to reconfiguring my environment, I can start organizing my mental processes and assessing my feelings. I also achieve this strange inner peace and feeling of control over my surroundings. It's nice. It helps me not to think about the millions of things that are bugging the hell out of me. Actually, I think it prepares me mentally and emotionally to tackle some of the less obvious issues that rankle me -- you know, the things you can't exactly attack with a broom and dustpan.
My dad called me yesterday to tell me he read my submission for the review, and that it made him really sad. I told him I was sorry, I wasn't sad when I wrote it and I wasn't trying to make anyone else sad for reading it. I told him he worries a lot and that's why all his whiskers are turning gray, and he said he was proud of me. I can't take a fucking compliment, even from my father. I just bumble through it and try to explain it away. Like most things, really. I should write a book about how to avoid being happy at all costs.