I failed to finish my project for this week in a timely manner so I am sitting up tonight to do it...three AM and I just hit "send." It's like college again, only with more carpal tunnel from track-padding and less rendering. I'm worried my hands are getting old.
Tomorrow I'm going to start packing/cleaning. It occurs to me that part of the reason I'm so cranky is that my environment is quite disgusting. In the back of my mind I've had the small post-it: "well, it doesn't matter, I'm leaving in a couple weeks anyway." But meanwhile, I'm still being annoyed by dust and dirt, etc. Also, I have absolutely no clean clothes and it is hard to shower and feel fresh when you have to put on dirty socks.
I'm also sick of my bed. I have an Aerobed, for those of you who don't know, which I bought because I suspected that I might not be staying in Chicago forever, and I didn't want to be hauling around a mattress and frame. I have no problem with my bed, it's comfortable, squashy, it holds me up when I sleep. But it's getting fatter, and by that I mean more squat. So none of my sheets fit, and I wake up with them tangled around my feet. And in my room--which is already small--my squat bed is taking up eighty percent of the space so there's only a tiny path around the bed, which is strewn with blankets, clothes, "Great Works of Poetry," quarters, occasionally small plastic historical figures and old issues of the RedEye.
And I'm sick of having a double bed. When Brenda & Peter set up house, murmurings were heard that it was such a small bed, but Brenda said "well, what more do we need?" And I agree--and I don't need a double bed. Confirmed singleton that I am, I think I would be much happier with a single bed, a pile of pillows and more floorspace to toss half-read books. I will have to look into this more later on if I get an apartment. The Buying of Beds is a Serious Matter.
And I have so much stuff. I don't know where it all came from. I know I'm going to leave my tiny black bookcase here--I paid $15 for it, but basically it's a waste of time, since anything with less than four-thousand square feet will be inadequate to my booky needs. And, ah, my books. Will I be able to part with any of them? Even the thrift-store finds I bought because it was cheaper than paying my library fine? Where did all these posters come from? Do the frames come or should I roll them up for now and "get them framed" in the future? Will that ever happen, really?
I get so attached to things. Ridiculous things, everyday items that you would think have no sentimental value, I hold in great esteem because they have been with me for so long. Like my razor--well, the handle--it's been with me since freshmen year of college, to Boston, to London. I was so upset when I lost my CTA card because it was in my Oyster holder--which I had had with me since week one of London. My old library cards, even the expired ones. My pink brush, the first hairbrush I ever bought for myself--lost between here and Madison. It's funny the things we pack up and choose to take with us, the things we "have" to have, and the things we can bear to part with. I've learned I can do very well without my razor--but God forbid I should venture forth without pen, paper, ink.