THESE DAYS ALWAYS GET ME. Sucked into the cyclone of a disheveled space, I find myself sitting on the floor untangling knots in the necklaces I wore during the 8th grade.
A crisis closet, six tons of never-been-worns, five bags for giveaway, one for my sister. The magazine scraps I saved back in Grade 13, finally in the trash. Jewelry and power cords upon notes from guys I dated six years ago. What is this stuff? And why in Sam Hill did I keep this nonsense around for so long?
My bed’s made at least but it doesn’t make a difference; my room’s still a nightmare.
Blargh, I tell you. Blargh.
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