Organized Mess

can i please just get it together?

If I got down on my knees to pray, the laundry pile needing folding would withdraw me from any kind of divine conversation. Just lingering there and I, Sisyphus, and this damn laundry is my boulder. Much like right now, a hangnail distracts from typing and its snowing outside and I can’t believe its April again and I’m almost 31, still asking God to fix me.

I remember the repetition: “its simple, but its not easy” and now that permeates everything. Its simple to fold the laundry, and why can’t it be easy? This executive dysfunction renders me useless and in knowing so, I’m dipping my toes into low self-worth again. Good god, aren’t we tired of this cycle? My other boulder. Its simple to write, but its not easy. And here I am, too, with all these dreams.

Too much to do, so I run away. These monsters can’t find me under the covers playing Two Dots and can’t roll their eyes about me paying $1.99 for more lives. I’ve got too many lives in the real world; too many things I want to do. Sylvia Plath and some fig tree metaphor, except she didn’t have a phone bill or a front row view into everyone else’s life, wondering how the fuck the meanest bitch she knows has a mental health podcast.

I open a new tab. Pinterest. Scroll mindlessly through thousands of photos, burning my corneas on blue light and imaginings of another life. I’ll add it to them to the list: wistful hostess, cakes of pink and red to the ceiling, or maybe an athlete this go around. Or maybe I should buy some crap I don’t need - my only vice.

Burnout this way is a first world problem. We have been torn in every direction and wander aimlessly, our compasses held to the magnet that is the reality of living in modern day America in the lower middle class. Apathy comes next. It is exhausting to tread water with nowhere to go. We can volunteer tomorrow. Get a job tomorrow. Find meaning tomorrow. Today, we are tired. CNN tells only sad stories, bleaker stories than this one. Why would we ever get out of bed?
Sometimes we can’t care.

And then here comes the fuck it. The thrashing against the previously held notions of just a moment earlier. Fuck the hangnail. And fuck Two Dots. And fuck the meanest bitch I know who has a mental health podcast. I’m alive. Sylvia Plath is not. I think she would leave the planet again if she was. Everything is off. And I’m off to the shore again, a Joan Didion retreat in lieu of a grave. In lieu of flowers for my family. Vacillating back to a manic. I’m figuring out this landscape. But I still need to fold the laundry. Thanks for listening, God.