i don't know what clutter is but i know it's bad. i'm a mess. my apartment's a mess. the opposite of feng shui. my apartment is delta burke's makeup drawer and i don't know how to fix it. so i'm fixing parts of it. tiny parts of it. and i can't even handle that too well. maybe one too many erma bombeck books as a kid lamenting the labor and peril of housework? maybe a subconscious minefield of clutter to keep out the bogeyman? maybe being lazy and good for nothing? okay no on that last pair because i'm not lazy and i am good for something.
i'm going to define then eliminate clutter. which will then leave belongings of purpose only. then i'm going to have to bust my ass and keep those scrubbed, polished and faced. that last one's a retail term, like when you put all the bratz dollz facez frontz soz peoplez canz seez howz sluttyz theyz arz.
entering my apartment and realizing everyday that i don't live in pee-wee's playhouse imparts a heaviness to my body. i feel weight on it. i feel slow and tired and defeated. and then i watch some interior design show or segment and feel like saying gee nate berkus i could make my apartment look great too if i had an unlimited budget or gee house flipper i could make my apartment look great too if it were a house that i could alter because i owned it.
but those are excuses. no matter how non-wealthy i am, i can still cultivate my own sense of style. i can still create a nurturing, stimulating, welcoming environment that feeds instead of drains. so this clutter has got to go. except my alan alda memorial soccer ball with chocolate center and genuine imitation silver moon applique. it may be clutter but if i throw it out alan will know and beat the shit out of me, which is so unlike a male feminist.