I need to do my laundry. I need to clean my room of the half caked over plates of sorta eaten food. I need to live a life that doesn’t involve procrastinating on anything productive in favor of hulu and farting in my bed. After a full five hours of latte making I walked the full block back to my apartment and assumed that I deserved to take off my pants. Now that I’ve closed my door and am in the boxer briefs I pulled out of my duffel bag that masquerades as a dirty clothes hamper this morning I can’t pick up the cotton and polyester litterings that cover any opportunity my floor has for seeing the uncomfortably dim light that I live my life in. I can’t pick up that clothing and take it the twenty feet over to the washing machine because my roommates don’t want to see my hairy chicken legs barely clothes scuffling across our kitchen. Except that I’m shameless. I really can’t because if I do that, then I’ve gone down the rabbit hole of chores.
Once I transport clothing to it’s washing device, I should probably clean my sheets too. And move the plates that cover all flat raised areas in my room toward the sink. And wash those dishes. And hang up some of the menus I’ve stacked on my cupboard onto my wall of food. And discard the trash that is on my bed. And on my cupboard, and in my closet, and on the floor. And those sunglasses should all be in the same place somewhat instead of discarded haphazardly around my room. And I should open that garbage bag full of knickknacks I stole from a dead woman’s house and put them somewhere that isn’t in a closed garbage bag. And I should hang up my suits on something that isn’t the back of my rolling chair. And I should hook up my printer and keyboard and other computer easier devices to my computer and sit that on the desk instead of on my bed/table/couch/dining room/living area. And I should buy deodorant – which I haven’t worn for days because when I woke up the other morning I slipped in my application and my deodorant found it’s way into my just recently peed in toilet. And I should buy toothpaste so I stop using my roommate’s. And I should live appropriately for a human being.
The worst part about this is that I have scripts to write and shows to book that I am also slacking on because I feel like that should come after my chores of cleanliness, but because those chores come after bed-farting in my mind, bed-farting is taking precedent over career pretend-building.
I bought a bubble machine one day. Above it I have hung a picture I took of the bubble machine in its box when I bought it. I never turn it on because it makes too much noise. I have allowed too much space in my room to be taken over by this novelty item that I don’t use.