A Revised Entry From My Journal...that's not really about the meaning of life haha
(5/20/09)
For the past week, I've been trying to clean house. I've thrown away more papers than I've ever thrown away in my life. The Kindergarten papers with the dot-to-dot drawings, the 6th grade Bronze Bow essays (I read them over and am appalled that I used "that" instead of "who"), the random handouts, worksheets, letters, trinkets, I've stuffed all in Costco garbage bags to be shipped off to the dumpster (I wonder if my mother recycled it all). I couldn't keep all the memories anymore because they were weighing down on my house. If you've been to my house, you would have observed that every cabinet, every closet, and every open corner, is one for storing textbooks, schoolwork, and random junk. The house is so much cleaner with all of it gone. I even feel that the air is cleaner somehow. I can open the buffet that's supposed to be used to store forks and plates and not have a bazillion old vocab quizzes or grammar packets fall out. It helps that my mother hired her maid friend to come over and vacuum the carpets (I swear the vacuum cleaner hates me. The lady used the same vacuum cleaner I always use, and she made nice vacuum marks in the floor. I never make vacuum marks in the floor! Vacuum marks = good lol), wash the windows, and sweep, mop, clean the bathroom, etc.
But despite the cleaning, reorganizing, the throwing away, I feel kind of unhappy about it all. I can't help but feel as if I liked things just the way they were before. I'm familiar with mess; I miss my stuff, and I don't like being uprooted. clean air is good. Space is wonderful. A fresh start is what I need. Then why do I complain?
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