Lately, I’ve been making lists. To put some order in my life, I list the things to do, things to buy, things to clean, things to explore…
Back in high school, the only lists I’ve been making were lists of my favorite bands/artists, which, as time went on, got covered in layers of liquid paper as my tastes changed and evolved. I remember that fateful day when I erased Michael Jackson from the number one spot and replaced him with Marilyn Manson. It was a rather scary moment, and it took all my utmost strength to bring myself to do it. Deep down I knew he has become my favorite and it was imperative for me to make it official… in my list.
Now the lists I do are watered down and always include the same elements:
– Junk food
– Clean bathroom
– Do laundry
– Work on zine
– Do nails, eyebrows
I don’t know if I make lists for fear of forgetting to eat or to shower. Glad I don’t need a reminder to breath. But somehow I feel as though if I make a list, once all these things are done, I can finally be happy or satisfied with my current state. Yet as I cross out the last item on the list, I don’t feel any better or any worse, and before I can enjoy some me-time, it’s time to go to sleep… which is basically the only me-time I get.
That’s what happens when you work six days a week, wake up at 5:30 a.m. to get to work at 7:00, work until 4:00 without a decent lunch break, taking bites from some random sandwich in between phone calls and demands from the boss, then walking home for about an hour, and being so tired and hungry that by the time I get home all I wanna do is have a drink of water to sustain my stomach and crash, and find myself waking up in a daze after nightfall wondering where I am and what year it is. So much for putting some order in my life.
If anything, I live in a steady, static, perfectly organized routine of disorder and self destruction.
Peace, love and thank the Mother Goddess for everlasting confusion.