I know that some people say that cleaning makes them feel better. Frankly, that’s the last thing I feel like doing when I’m feeling bad. Unless it’s my room. See, I am not the best housekeeper. I’m sure you had no idea, but there it is. SallyGirl is a slob. We keep the public part of the house presentable most of the time, but my side of the bedroom looks like Katrina took a detour. I avoid it like the plague, until I’m feeling pretty crappy. Then I put on my Supremely Sally playlist and get to work, and I really do feel better again. I’m considering making it a permanent thing, the clean half of the room. But then something else will fall apart, and I’m not sure I want to find out what that is. Now that I no longer stuff my face whenever I feel like it (well, except for the powdered donut incident yesterday), and I’m banned from having any kind of credit card for life (so I can’t spend my bad feelings away), I use my room as my chaos outlet.
Why do I feel like I’m lying to myself? Probably because I am. Damn, I hate it when I’m cognizant like that. I am running away from responsibility, and I am running out of places to run away to. I may be forced to start becoming responsible soon. What if I don’t like who I am then? What if I’m not funny anymore? I’m scared to grow up. Maybe I’m pissing my life away while I can. Subconsciously I must be waiting for my husband to turn 36 so I can make sure he’s not going to die and leave me alone like my dad did. Well that’s good news! Three more years until I grow up!
Gosh I hope this crapfest leaves before my birthday party gets here. I hate to be a bummer when company comes!