Something Came Over Me
26 July 1999
11:15 PM: Brr. Must be fall, the air conditioning is working again.
I couldn't get onto this machine at all Saturday, thus looking like a big flake to people I was supposed to get back to. That's not that earth-shattering, they would have found out soon enough anyway. The other side effect was more unexpected, though.
I cleaned out my bedroom - and I mean entirely. Things left that I'd been glancing at briefly since I moved in here three years ago thinking, "Really should get rid of that." Four medium-sized moving boxes worth of newspapers taken out to recycling. Two triple-full shelves of books put away. I found a Polaroid camera still in its blister pack, that I don't even remember buying now. I even washed the sheets!
Now sure, it's easy for you to scoff. "Ewww!" you say, "what took you so long?" But for me, this was like ... like the bad scene in the cheesy films where the Son finally goes and confronts the Distant & Bitter Father or something. Think about, never do. I have big issues about cleaning for some reason. No doubt a melange of simple laziness and some sort of infantile anal arrested behavior. (No doubt, because that's the worst explanation I can think of, hence most likely. For those of you playing along at home.)
I don't know how or why it happened, either. Unexpectedly idle afternoon, a combo of Motrin and kava kava pills, motivation because of my back killing me and sleeping on the couch not working out lately, vague activist stirrings from recent readings, a low-pressure cell moving in from the coast. Something. Not repeatable, bad science.
So and yes it's a good thing and all, and I'm glad. But. The mattress, it's comfy and all. But. Something about that room there is, it maketh me into a zombie. Legs and arms fall asleep, head is filled with old dryer lint, will is gone, mind a puddle. I am remembering why I started crashing in my own apartment in the first place.
More air. See how that goes. Now, to find a drill.
Willfully blind self-indulgent nebbish or amusingly quirky old coot? And how bout that local sports team? Discuss among yourselves.
All names are fake, most places are real, the author is definitely unreliable but it's all in good fun. Yep.
© 1998-1999 Lighthouse for the Deaf. All rights reserved and stuff.
The motto at the top of the page is a graffito I saw on Brunswick Street in Melbourne.