As you all have noticed, I’m very into video games.
So I often connect things in real life to things I’ve experienced in games.
“That animation reminds of Little Big Planet”.
“They have that car and that car and that car in Grand Turismo”.
I enjoy “America’s Next Hooker” in Grand Theft Auto 4 much more than I do “America’s Next Top Model”.
I even have the full hip hop track list from the Grand Theft Auto 5 hip hop station. I love driving down the street listening to some song blurt something about San Andreas and feeling like I’m in the game.
I want the Bloodborne messenger bag. I have a messenger bag obsession and a purse obsession.
I want the Assassin’s Creed hoodies even though the ones I really like are only made for men which means they’ll probably be too big for me (I call BULLSHIT) and I want their messenger bag.
I want all sorts of accessories that show how much I love these things.
So today–all of that was relevant, I promise–while my boyfriend was clearing out some duffle bag where he keeps his paintball stuff, he pulled out some protection pad with a clump stuck to the top shaped like a rock. The closer my face got to it, the more clearly I could see the little spores and strings growing into the fabric. A sickly green hue gave it away: mold.
The chunk was half my palm.
It looks like the fungus that grows on Bloaters and Clickers in The Last of Us.
Except instead of an orange hue, it was a green hue. And not all over his head and body.
Thank God. Or else we’d seriously have to reconsider our relationship.
We stared at it like dogs uncertain of whether or not they want to experience the frustration of peanut butter on their tongue but unable to contain their curiosity over the floating spoon near their face. He got a couple napkins and yanked the chunk off–I bet it was pissed. That thing was thriving happily for months.
Turns out the last time he went to his uncle’s, he’d collected apples from a tree and forgot he’d tossed them in his bag. They’ve been there for a very, very long time. Rotting. Spreading spores.
We filled a bucket with Dawn Dish soap and water and soaked them and scrubbed them. He asked me to place them in the dryer.
His washer opens from the top and his dryer opens from the side.
At my apartment complex, all the washers open from the side and all the dryers open from the side.
For some reason, I thought his washer was the dryer, so I tossed them into the washer.
He said I had to include that part in my blog post after I told him I was blogging about the mold festering in his bag.
He’s a very clean, tidy, organized person. His room is almost always immaculate. He considers a “mess” a couple shirts and a pair of shorts tossed on his futon and maybe a small white spec on his carpet. He keeps his bed tidy and his clothes folded and always does laundry when he needs it. He does his chores and helps keep the rest of his parent’s house spotless.
And that’s just part of his daily routines. He’s very good at adulting.
I am the exact opposite and I’m horrid at adulting.
Sometimes my anxiety keeps me from gathering my clothes and walking down into the lobby with them because what if I have to walk past someone or run into someone in the laundry room? I don’t want anyone to see me and I don’t want to see them. I don’t want to talk about their day or my day or about laundry or even say hi. It’s just too much for me.
Sometimes I honestly don’t give a shit. Sometimes I want to gather it and head down there, but my motivation is at an all-time low, or I’m depressed, and I can barely get out of bed.
Sometimes I’m too busy lost in my games or in my writing to give two shits about the clothes piling up in the corner.
I also throw my stuff around. I can’t help it.
I’m very organized and careful when I’m in other people’s houses.
But when I’m in my own, when I don’t have to put up a front any longer, I revert into my real mind and I trash the place. I toss clothes wherever they fit, I leave things in convenient areas like right beside my bed or scattered around my desk. My mind is always somewhere else besides the present.
And I don’t have to be anxious or depressed for my mind not to be in the present.
Clutter doesn’t bother me. Objects (mostly technology) make me comfortable. I like being surrounded by my stuff.
I do clean every once in a while. Every four or five months I try and clean and every three or four days later the place is trashed and my mind is at ease again.
Without the clutter I lose things like crazy. I forget what special place I designated for everything. I forget what I pick up and where I put it down.
If it’s already all over the floor or my desk, I don’t need to worry about forgetting when I can already see it, do I?
In all honesty I don’t know why I can’t stay organized. Those aforementioned reasons are simply educated guesses. My mother spent countless hours with me in my childhood setting up my room to where everything has a place and both my parents always told me if I designate a place for something and always put it back, I’ll never forget it.
Well, I forget to put it back. That’s the problem.
It’s not as if my parents never disciplined me. Before we were homeless they used to ground me for not cleaning my room. I’d get things taken away and I’d do as they asked. I’d get spanked by my mother or hit with a belt by my father (at least his attempts at it, usually I’d jump out of the way or my mother would stop him) and then get sent to my room and not be allowed to leave until I came out with my bottom lip pouted, and an apology trampling over my tongue. Sometimes I didn’t understand why I was apologizing because I didn’t understand why I was being punished.
But no matter what happened in my childhood, no matter how many hours were spent teaching me about the importance of cleanliness and tidiness and no matter how many hours were spent on my part actually cleaning and being proud of myself . . . it never stuck.
Besides when it comes to my technology. I always, always keep that safe.
I’m not obsessive about cleanliness, I’m obsessive about the mess. It’s a very organized mess. I know where my shoes are. I know where my hair products are. I know where a pen is if I need one; I have several spots. I know where my clothes are–clean and dirty, even though they sometimes mingle by pure carelessness of yours truly. I know where my bags are and I know where my several wallets are. Everything is scattered but nothing is forgotten.
I don’t even use my closet anymore. The door is broken anyway. It’s just a gaping hole in the wall now. With a bunch of childhood shit in it.
I do enjoy living in my head. But I know it prevents me from handling responsibilities a girl in her 20’s should know how to handle.
I should also know how to handle stress, but I don’t.
I should know how to have a casual conversation, but I don’t. That I don’t even enjoy, so fuck it.
I should be able to vacuum a floor without wearing ear plugs. I want to get the vacuum brand my boyfriend’s family has. It’s very, very quiet and I can actually sit in the same room as it without my brain popping a gasket.
I should feel connected to this world, but I don’t.
I’m the most emotionally unemotional maturely immature four year old trapped in a twenty year old body I’ve ever met.
At least I don’t have CHUNKS of MOLD growing anywhere . . .
That I know of. . .