*facepalm*

The shelving units have been ready all summer, but I still prefer to sit in the middle of piled-up paperwork, curled-up Post-Its, CD covers and photographs bound in twine that formed a curious barricade on one side of my room.

And whenever someone asks when I'd get around to organizing stuff, I just tell them that there are things that simply can't get done for shit. That answer, coupled with a broody undertone, somehow gives me the sinking feeling that I'm trying to talk about something other than the sudden loss of my compulsive urge to tidy up.

At some point it's going to be just a little bit rude to leave things as they are, cuz after all, he lives here too. Right now, he's lost in a shuffle of his own messy bits in the downstairs anteroom, but sooner or later he's gonna pick up on my slack - and it would only be when he'd start getting curious that I'd wrinkle my nose at the idea of conformity and begin throwing words out like standards (and probably something stupid like boundaries); then he'll tell me to do whatever the hell I want since I can't deal--

Oh.

Oh.