I Can't Sleep

I want to sleep. I never have trouble sleeping. But I find myself laying awake in bed, staring at my ceiling, which has a huge hole in it. Of course, the hole makes me think about the spackling I have to do, which leads to me think about the cleaning of the walls, which leads me to think about the sweeping and mopping of the floors, which leads me to thinking about the 87 other things I have to do before I move. The problem is that the person moving into my apartment is a family friend, so if things aren't spick and span he'll tell his mom, who will tell my mom, and then there will be a good old fashioned guilt trip to deal with, and that is something I want to avoid at all costs. If you had ever been guilt-tripped by a petite, red-headed, PALESTINIAN LAWYER (which is the perfectly terrifying combination of righteous, generationally-based anger and non-stop, rat terrier-like tenancity) you would want to avoid it too.

I'm too distracted to write anything of worth right now. I'm so all over the place. My apartment is in disarray, my life is kind of in disarray, therefore my brain is in disarray. All my clothes are scattered around my living room, the neatly ordered 7 piles have turned into about 15 not so clearly delineated piles, and everytime I think I've finished a section, I find one random item that should have been packed with that section, and I have to create a box full of the random things that didn't get packed with their brethren. Sad little items. I can't concentrate on any one thing, so I'll focus on my birthday and my party coming up. I'm going to give myself the weekend off, at least in an emotional, spiritual sense. I still have to fucking pack, but I'm going to not care about the order or competence of that packing for the weekend.

Until, of course, I open up box after box of shattered belongings in August. Then I'll care a whole hell of a lot.