Sunday, January 17, 2010

Am I allowed to be bored?

When you don't have a job and have very little money it feels wrong to be bored. Winter has a lot to do with it too. You get that bedsore feeling, like all you've done all day is lay around. Remember now that I don't have a desk or table to work at so I look for employment laying down. I also watch Hulu laying down, read books, play computer games... and my mother wonders why I eat standing up.

It not some type of specific thing I want to do. I think about a lot of the things I normally like to do, driving, walking around stores, playing games, seeing movies, but none of them are striking me as what I feel like doing. I don't like shopping without money and it sucks even more since I don't have a place to put anything. I brought useful boxes to put things in the other day, but what I really need is like a organization center, like an entertainment center, but you put crap in it instead of a television. Of course I don't have room for that.

To give you an idea of what I'm working with my room is in a constant state of flux. The static items that were here before I returned were a twin bed with a sinking spot, a tall bookcase where in anything I removed to bring to school were replaced with shit, an uncomfortable chair, a bedside table that was until last week full of crap, and a dresser full of a small fraction of the crap a fifty-six year old woman with three grown kids accumulates. She offered to empty, but I don't want to get comfortable and I want her to thrown the crap out, not move it into some other room. She's starting to remind me of her mother with the "always need to clean and thrown things out" problem.

Anyway, that stuff fits in fairly well - until someone tries to live in the room. I noticed that there really wasn't anywhere to put my suitcase when I visited. It now sits next to the bedside table zippered up in case I need to use it. My father would put it in the rafters I'm sure. Next to that is a very large box that carried the rest of my summer clothes and a couple other things. It still sits there as a place to put clothes that don't quite fit me at the moment and to hold most of my t-shirts that are a bit impractical in the winter. Next to that is the bookcase - the lower two sections are inaccessible because of the box, the top shelf became home to everything I left and my mother added. The middle shelves have things I bought while back, like books, and a couple of art pieces I own, not to mention cologne, contacts, etc.

On the floor next to that I have a box of paper for art. I'm getting the urge again and this time it's right here. I also consider it one of the things that need to be inside so it doesn't get destroyed. My almost brand new printer is in the unheated garage which makes me cry a little. Getting back to my floor, I also have my large artbox, which is about the size of a case of water from Walmart, which cannot be outside as well as computer discs and music. My eighteen inch tall Christmas tree is in here too right now as is my Tupperware of ornaments. I have a rubbermaid drawer dealie that I use as a dresser for underwear, socks and undershirts. Everything else is folded on top of the dresser in plain view. Couple boardgames that got brought in and never sent back out and my "medical" box - band-aids, soap, theatrical makeup. Finally eBay boxes and last but not least two laundry baskets, one for underwear and one for everything else. If I don't do my laundry every week the baskets overflow and make my room nearly unlivable. For one day a week I feel like my room is a little clean, but it's like doing a quick wipe down your bathroom when you know it need a overhaul. My room hasn't been vacuumed in six months.

And this is what I have to live with on a daily basis. I can't breathe in the rest of the house, or in my room if I leave the door open. I tire of my parents conversation. I refused the other day to engage my mother's attempt to make an amazing story over how she prepared dinner when my father was out of town. This isn't a feel sorry for my mother thing, I was in the kitchen when she did it, and the answer when my father asks is usually redundant ("This looks sautéed," "Why yes it was!").

That was cathartic.

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