I hate cleaning. I really, really hate it.
Actually, cleaning is tolerable. I can scrub a toilet or mop a floor once in a while (sure as hell nearly broke my back deck scrubbing the dining room floor at my job for a year as a closer), but it's the organizing that I can't stand. I take off my work clothes and leave them on the floor. I don't fold and put away my laundry much of the time. Papers accumulate in haphazard piles next to my bed. I just don't care to keep things tidy, and by the time I actually feel like doing anything about the clutter, it's an hours-long task.
It may seem simple to an organized person that I should just put things away right at the time I'm done with them. And when it comes to laundry and other items that have a clear place, I agree. It's the rest of the junk that I have; no matter how much time I try to think of clever ways to organize, label, or arrange things, it just never turns out right. Then I get mad, then I just start throwing things into random boxes anyway.
Today I decided to make use of all my old shoe boxes. I had one for electronics, one for jewelry, one for cards and stationery, etc. But then there was still random shit everywhere. Like, where the fuck am I supposed to put ski goggles the guy from two relationships ago bought me for my foray onto the bunny hill? Or that old padlock for which I swear I have the combination written down somewhere? Or that busted up magic wand from my Tinkerbell costume?
I can't ever believe it. I get annoyed with myself for letting the clutter get that bad, then again for being unable to throw things away. Then I question how and why I acquired so much clutter in the first place, what that says about me, and whether or not I would be able to live without most of it. I think about how far away we've gone from basic needs of food, water, and shelter, and how appalling it is that some people in the world still go without one or more of these things while I try to figure out what to do with fifteen years' worth of writing utensils.
I really, really hate cleaning.
I have needed to for months, but I finally got around to actually picking up because my landlord is coming over tomorrow to remove our window air conditioner (I imagine the same will happen when he has to return in the spring, as my mess will no doubt have returned by then). I've been putting it off like nobody's business, and this weekend got so worked up over whether cleaning would take away from noveling time and vice versa that I just didn't get anything done at all.
Today, however, I wrote 1,700 words while at work AND cleaned once I got home. And while I'm still around 13,000 words behind where I should be (I have 12,000-ish at this point and should have 25,000 by mid-month), at least the damn room is clean and I have one less concern standing between me and 50,000. And I now have a clutter free, relaxing space to write. Behold:
Now, about that novel...