This is about de-cluttering

Apropos of nothing, I decided yesterday to clean out my closet. Maybe it was because every time I tried to pull out a shirt from my closet, an entire pile would fall to the ground, which I obviously didn’t fold properly or even put back. Or maybe it was because I was bored and I thought this process would only take 45 minutes.

What a fucking knob I was.

3 hours later, I’m on the ground surrounded by clothing and self-hatred. I had so much shit. SO MUCH SHIT. So much shit that didn’t fit, so much shit that I didn’t like, so much shit that I NEVER wore and only bought because it was on sale or because I wanted to “try it out” but quickly remember “YO ANN, COTTON IS NOT YOUR BLEND.” Sitting in a veritable clothing dumpster, I realized I spend way too much money on clothes. Duh, I’m glamourous, that shouldn’t come as a surprise, but being surrounded by all my clothing ghosts really haunted me. It’d be one thing if I spent all this money on quality clothing that I could give away to a charity that helps women get back on their feet or something noble. At least I’d feel a little bit better because my obvious spending problem could benefit someone more deserving, BUT I DON’T. How’s a woman supposed to try to make a good impression on a possible employer in a striped neon orange tank top from H&M and America-flag leggings, because that’s mostly what I’m throwing out: neon stuff and joke clothing. Things I saw on the rack and was like, “Ha ha, I could play a psychopath who sells canned meat from the trunk of her car in a sketch wearing that shirt. GOTTA BUY IT!” The only job someone could get wearing my old clothes is “Rude But Sad Party Girl” and if that was a job, I’D ALREADY HAVE IT, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

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The end, when it mercifully came, felt good. So good, that I thought, “Hey, while I’m at it, I might as well just de-clutter everything else in my room!”

What a fucking knob I was X 1000000000000000000000.

Which brings us to today. Sitting in a pile of text books, pictures, yearbooks, all the nostalgic stuff that is supposed to make you reflect on your life and BOY I AM NOT DEALING WITH IT WELL. Nothing like several dusty zoology textbooks to make you realize you’ve spent thousands of your parents money on an education and all you did with it is barely make a living telling boner jokes to drunk people. And yes, of course, school isn’t always what you study, it’s what you learn about yourself blah blah blah… Tell that to the guilt headache that’s settled comfortably between my eyes. Then of course there’s all the cards and letters and notes from friends who are long gone, some by choice and others because of time (not death tho, fortunately). There’s been a lot of crying on the floor, which I guess is par for the course when you’re unpacking all your baggage, literally and figuratively. I look around and there’s so much old garbage. That’s what stuff becomes when you no longer have use for it. No matter how much you like it at the time, things lose their shine and become forgotten, and then become garbage.

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Uh oh. This got very bleak very fast. I can only do what I normally do when things get a little too real and GET THE FUCK OUT. Sorry, room, at least until tomorrow, you’ll remain cluttered and disorganized, much like my feelings at the moment. I probably shouldn’t leave on such a downer, so here’s a picture of me as a baby I found.

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Dat ass!

(Sorry, my own self)

 

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