Yesterday I was signing a card for my dad's birthday, but in the middle of writing in it, my dad came home from picking up ice cream for dessert, and I had to run around to find some place to keep writing so he wouldn't see me.
Sad part? I ran around the whole house looking for a surface to write on besides the kitchen table (because he would come in through that way), and I couldn't find one. Yeah, that's right. There was absolutely no surface in my bedroom or my living room or study room for me to write a birthday card. Every surface was covered with books and just plain stuff. It was frustrating.
So I can be messy. It happens. I don't have time to put things away or can't find a place for them, so stuff gets left around unorganized and unkept. It's understandable. But what I can't stand is when there's just so much of it that it'll take days to go through it, and 3/4 of the stuff isn't even your own. I really don't like cleaning up other people's mess because I'm always afraid I'll toss something they want. What I can't stand is if you can't spend like a half an hour putting stuff away where they belong, or a couple of hours reorganizing or rearranging things to put them away neatly. And believe me, you can't do that in my house.
That's the way my house has always been. And I hate it.
I was given full on hope that changing bedrooms with my parents would give me my own space. A space just like my dorm room at school that I could have control over, that I could call my room. But as our room-switch operation date got pushed from the week I got home from school to the week I get back from Urbana, my hope has been sinking and it is sinking fast. I fear it's not going to get done, or I fear it'll take the whole winter break to do it, which I already have very little of.
My house is a haphazard, a place I don't particularly like inviting friends over to because it's so messy and old. I have to be careful walking up and down the stairs because there's stuff on it, and carrying things around my house is dangerous because I might trip over towers of books and CDs or boxes of stuff. Our piano has become another shelf, and the piano bench is Sam's pseudo-desk. My desk area has become storage space for my stuff and Pam's, and the floor of our bedroom has become Pam's space for stuff. I can't reach my desk anymore.
I do not care what color paint my (and Pam's) new room will be. I am not looking forward to the actual process of switching bedrooms, but I certainly will be the happiest camper when I can finally find a place of refuge and peace in this house.
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