Look at your fish

The distinct buzzing of my mini-fridge plays as an undertone to the latest Brit-pop craze, The Servant over my low-volume sound system. Its hum is familiar and, though off-key in comparison to the song, makes me feel like the day is working hard.

I sit here in my room surrounded by messy sheets, classwork, books and a constantly ringing cell phone and feel accomplished. If this is what waking up at 9am on a workless Saturday, eating at IHOP with my boyfriend and his brother, and settling in for hours of homework does to my mood, I'm scheduling my days like this more often.

Laundry day?

As much as I miss the inane banter of unfocused type, I can't say I'll willingly trudge back to blogging. Being here means something fucked with the rest of my life. That connection, however futile, isn't so easily cut.

I've made such a large snowball out of my problems that it's hard, if not impossible, to even begin describing its contents. The piles of things, like laundry, are starting to give off a scent that's impervious to the activity around it. You can't just air out smelly clothes, you have to thoroughly wash them. And no one really enjoys doing laundry.

I don't even tolerate looking at my laundry. It stays in my neatly organized closet, three feet deep behind the plastic patterned divider. And every couple weeks I'll run out of hiding places for tops and jeans and I'll push my clothes through a machine in small organized piles.

I can't say it's time consuming, doing laundry or working on problems. Getting started, much like relationships, essays and dinner, is the hardest part. But before even starting, you have to acknowledge that it's there.

Until I have an avalanche to deal with, there's always under the bed and on the floor of my closet...

I'm weak.