Your alarm goes off in the morning. You press snooze at least 7 times. You finally check the time. You realize you’re going to be late for work. Cue panic. In an attempt to (almost) be punctual, every article of clothing is ripped out of your closet even though you’ll probably just wear the black button-down that you wear at least once a week with the dark blue jeans you got in 2007 that somehow still fit you.
You may not have time to brew a cup of coffee, but hey: you still have that leftover muffin from yesterday. You grab it from the kitchen, bring it back to your room, scarf it down and leave a trail of crumbs that Hansel and Gretel could follow.
Bed unmade, keys in hand, you leave. You get to work, it’s a slow day, and you realize that your room is now a catastrophe and you’ll have to clean it when you get home. Even though there’s wars going on in the world and people are dying of starvation, the weight of cleaning your room gives you heart-hurting anxiety that lasts all day.
It’s not even that messy, you tell yourself while sitting in front of your computer. It’ll take me like 10 minutes to clean. I don’t even need to clean it tonight.
You then realize that you haven’t vacuumed in what feels like weeks and there’s probably a hill of ants under your bed and in your sock drawer .You have to be an adult and clean your room. Actually clean it.
Twenty minutes later, you’re mentally carving out time from your short-because-you-work evening to play the role of maid. I’ll do a good thorough cleaning, you tell yourself. I’ll even vacuum. You almost might give yourself a hypothetical reward, like, If I clean my room tonight, I’ll buy myself a cupcake tomorrow.
You get home from work, kick off your shoes and lay down on your bed. You sit there for at least a half hour scrolling through Facebook, Twitter and Instagram even though you did that your entire commute home.
You then FINALLY get up. Congratulations! You start with your bed and move as slowly as possible while spreading your flower-patterned, probably-needs-to-be-thrown-out/washed comforter to all four corners. Next come the pillows. Now it’s time to get all those clothes off the floor.
You pick up the first pair of pants on top of the pile and fold them. Then, you grab another. You then get tired and take the enormous mountain of clothes and dump them on your bed. I’ll do that last, you think. You move to your desk which needs about three bottles of pledge and-oh my god, how many notebooks do I own? Why do I have so many? You then take said notebooks and dump those on your bed, too, right next to your wardrobe. You then take all the weird miscellaneous things that live on your table and open your designated drunk drawer (which is possible all of your drawers).
In your junk drawer, you find everything: that earring you thought you lost in a cab, the free chapstick you got from your dermatologist, your old iPod nano that has the All American Rejects on it. You then take everything out of your junk drawer, dump it on your desk, and decide to go through it. After about three hours of this, you’ve made 0 progress: if anything, the junk drawer was better left as is.
I Don’t Even Care
It’s now 12:00 and you have to be up in six hours. You head to the bathroom, wash your face, get back to your room and realize there’s a mountain of crap on your bed. You sigh, take the pile, and put it back on your floor. Whatever, I’ll do it tomorrow.