I’m exhausted just looking at it. My apartment—or rather, the disaster area that once was my apartment. I make a point to at least have some clear floorspace for an unobstructed pathway from room to room. Beyond that, it’s hopeless.
It usually starts with dishes. I’ve developed this bad habit of leaving dishes everywhere. Glasses half-filled with water and melting ice. The plate that had some grapes in them. Potato chips bowl. I’ll wash them tomorrow. By tomorrow, they’ve seemingly multiplied, perhaps by spontaneous generation.
Then it’s laundry. Little piles of clean, questionable, and downright dirty. I’ll come home from the hospital tired, pull off my scrubs, and they’ll end up in a trail that leads to my bed: socks in the living room, pants by the bathroom, and shirt lost in my bedroom. Sometimes, I’ll wash the clean ones again just because they’re wrinkled. Much easier than ironing—if only I can remember to take them out of the dryer on time.
I didn’t use to be this bad. Ask Steve. I used to love my apartment, and it loved me, and…and…and…it’s become this bad marriage where I neglect it, and it plots to move piles of junk during the night so that I’ll trip over it in the morning.
I’m falling apart, and I can see it here. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’ve convinced myself that if I could only clean, really clean this place up that I’d somehow be fixed, too.
But I’m so tired. I look around, and there’s so much to do, and I tell myself Tomorrow, Dee, you can start tomorrow. It’s been weeks, and tomorrow is nowhere in sight.
Seriously, tomorrow.
