This is unimportant and self-indulgent.
I thought I’d get that out of the way first.

I’m having a bad morning and there’s really no reason for it.  B. was up all night and is now dozing fitfully on the couch (there’s snoring, and then silence, and then snoring again), and I’m wandering around in a very Flashdance-y grey tshirt, trying not to make the floorboards creak.  I went through all of my jewelry and separated out the things I’m finally ready to get rid of; sure hope the Salvation Army has a burning need for hemp necklaces from the late 90s.  Jewelry is a horrible gift - no one really knows your taste, or your taste changes, and then you have this necklace that you’ll never ever wear but your ex-boyfriend’s mom gave it to you so you feel bad getting rid of it.

I’ve been spending too much time on tumblr the past few days.  It’s great, but it’s a total timesuck and here I am again.  Bowl of granola clusters left abandoned, dishes in the sink, light snores coming from the living room, Dashboard in the other tab.  I was trying to clean my bedroom (our bedroom) but I got overwhelmed by the sheer volume of crap and started muttering under my breath that I was going to “burn Utica to the GROUND” which made me think about NBC sitcoms which made me think maybe I should just give up and watch something on Hulu while eating leftover pizza.  Instead I came here and thought about how easy it is to be mean on the internet and re-read firmuhment’s latest entry.

Is it 2002?  Is this my Livejournal?  What the fuck am I doing?

I look at Dwell (through Unhappy Hipsters) and think that’s what I want. I’m awestruck. Look at those clean lines, look at that minimalism, look at the - the lack of excess. It’s too stark at times, yeah. There’s little warmth. But I look at the sense of implied organization in all that bare modernism and think yeah, that’d be a relief. To have the luxury of space, for everything to have a place, and for everything to be in its right place.

And then I go home to my little apartment, and I try to minimize, and I’m sitting on the floor telling myself I may one day need that issue of Spin with the Duffy cover story. I might need that. It’s part of my personal history. The box of zines from 2002, the balls of yarn from my mostly-abandoned knitting projects.

And so there is clutter, and so there are boxes, and so there are space issues, and so on and so on.