I
believe my dad told me to clean my room today, but I guess I wasn't
paying attention because I've only made a huge mess that has carpeted
my floor. I suppose I don't really like listening to people who
are fond of using one-word sentences ... "Go. Clean.
Or. Die." ... It's much more interesting to decide what to have
for lunch or to dream about Captain Jack Sparrow. Listening to my
dad goes up there with cleaning on the list of things I despise.
Cleaning
involves moving -- not only am I moving myself, but I also have to move
objects ... Objects which have gathered dust that will go flying into
my face causing me to slaughter tons of innocent brain cells by
sneezing. And what does my misery get me? Large,
sort-of-but-not-really-organized piles of STUFF all over my room and I
can't find a single thing I'm looking for.
I
probably wouldn't be faced with any of these problems, though, if I'd
just stop being such a pack rat. I can search and search through
all of the heaps of junk for any given object, but the only things I
ever find are memories ... Memories and my worthless belongings.
Oh look, there's the pile of giant scrunchies that always adorned my
hair back when it wasn't always in my face ... And over there is an
assortment of glittery make up people gave me in our middle school
years that I've only broken out a handful of times to liven up my stage
make up! Here are all of the bottles of obnoxiously colored nail
polish that I used to insist on wearing, much to my piano teach's
dismay, and ... What's that? Oh, the miscellanous pile -- I can
see the box of incense that my parents once mistook for drugs.
That is one big heap of nothing. The two biggest piles, however,
are the clothing pile and the paper pile.
The
clothing pile is made up of ... well ... clothes ... but they're not
too small or anything ... I just stopped wearing them. Why?
I honestly can't tell you. But I CAN'T just donate them ... What
if one day I want them again? I assure you that this has yet to
happen, but I just won't part with that silly peasant shirt with the
huge sleeves or that silly fuzzy sweater with that terrible
pattern. This refusing to let things go is even worse with my
paper pile. Don't get me wrong, I'm quick to toss out my old
school notebooks and binders, but when it comes to pictures, Christmas
cards, programs from every single performance I've ever seen or been
in, or even ticket stubs from EVERYTHING, I just can't bear to think of
them sitting in a dump somewhere. Do I ever reread those holiday
cards? No. Do I look over the programs? No. Do
I ever relive moments caught in photos? Only if they're on
Facebook. And yet, SOMEHOW, I just can't throw these things
away. The funny part is, I usually don't even remember that I
have them until I discover them when it's time to throw them
away. I HAVE to keep those seemingly useless papers just in case
one day, when I'm old and senile, I break all of the rules of the human
mind and remember a repressed memory (I can't figure out how that'd
work but I bet I can do it.) about a box hidden away somewhere that
contains Valentine cards from the fifth grade.
In
case you're wondering how I ever finish cleaning my room, I normally
relocate the sort of sorted mountains of items to various places in my
house where I know they'll be out of my way but safe. I'm running
out of space. Today I almost gave up and got as far as putting my
memorabilia in a trash bag, but I haven't quite gotten to moving this
trash bag out of my room. Maybe I ought to bury it in the ground
where I can dig it up anytime I want. It would be like a time
capsule for myself. A big old trash bag full of Jane's childhood
buried in the dirt of her backyard, acting as a time capsule.
That's almost creepy. I should look into getting a treasure
chest. Maybe I'll even draw a map. Because THAT wouldn't be
creepy.
Savvy?
