When I got to work this morning, there were ten garbage cans around my desk. I think someone is trying to tell me something, like maybe I shouldn’t be on strike.
I am, though. I am officially On Strike, and have been for a while now. Our apartment has been declared hazardous and unfit for human habitation, but I refuse to do anything about it. It’s really killing me, too – there are spices in the bedroom, unmentionables in the living room, and ectoplasm everywhere. I want to clean and straighten and generally have a home that doesn’t look like it’s about to showcased on TLC as a terrible example of Humanity Gone Wrong, but I am On Strike.
I am not going to clean the apartment until I can pack and purge at the same time.
If this means we live in squalor until we move, so be it. I am prepared to step over the tangle of shoes and entrails several times a day; quite content to walk the delicate line between the mountain of empty pop bottles and pit of sticky porn. I’ve been mentally purging our belongings for weeks in preparation for the move that is hypothetically supposed to happen, and I’m actually looking forward to it – we have so very many things that we don’t need. I’m going to try and pare down as much as I possibly can – books we haven’t read in years; clothing that’ll never see the light of day; furniture that has seen better days. It will all go at the same time I am packing, or it won’t go at all.
We must! We must! We must decrease our stuff!