All grown up and nowhere to go

My house has too many people living in it. The whole place was packed with stuff. Which, I suppose, was why the parents decided to go on the warfront and beat these stuff down, pack them in boxes, throw them down the chutes, whatever way will annihilate them.

Coincidentally, having just arrived back from overseas, I have my own spring-cleaning to do as in my absence my clothes have decided to procreate and multiply exponentially. Tch, figures.

But spring-cleaning on your own volition vs spring-cleaning as ordered by Daddy, while he shoves empty plastic bags down your throat, are two different things. Which was why I became largely discouraged to do the former (because in doing so, I will inadvertently do the latter, which I didn’t really feel like doing).

In any case, I finally got off my arse to start the cleaning tonight. What I have accomplished: 1) moving stacks of shoeboxes from my room to the corridor, which is located exactly 2 meters away. 2) Packing away old bags, belts and other bells & whistles into said plastic bags and leaving them in the corridor, which is, as said earlier, located 2 meters away.

Therefore a re-emphasis on the point on this house: it is way too small. Methinks it’s about time I flit away again to some other country for another 7 weeks, or more. God yes, more sounds awesome. More sounds like the perfect escape route because, having lived on my own for the past 2 months or so, I’m suddenly having space issues. No, I’m not going to clean up the ‘gigantic mess’ that is my bed because yes, I do like it like that. It is an organised mess, an art form perfected through a series of seemingly unconscious tossing-of-clothing-articles-around. There’s a method to this madness, everything pre-planned from the start.

See, if I live alone, I can convince myself to believe in the above statement, whereas Mummy will just slap me silly.

I love living out of a suitcase, love it love it love it please let me do it please send me somewhere else. I promise I will be good.

But I do digress. When I typed the title of this post, what I had in mind was to write down my amazement that I actually stopped writing. As in, when I was a teeniebopper, I used to write stories and poems and things. Yes, I was an emo kid. The kind that spoke perfect English and never said the wrong things because everything was pre-meditated. But good God my writings were brilliant! I came across old essays and notebooks while cleaning up and were it not for the handwriting, I’d have thought someone else had written those stories. Perfect grammar and lyrical sentences, all sewn up nicely together. Wonderful use of metaphors. All these from a 14-yr-old… I could weep.

Why the hell did I go the science-accounting-banking route? I could’ve been real artsy had I taken up lit. Feck. Shite. More importantly, how come I can’t comprehend my own fancy-schmancy use of vocab now? Language degradation… I blame it on beer consumption.

Can’t believe I stopped writing. It really would have been a whole nother life. On the one hand, I may have ended up with slit wrists in a dodge bathtub somewhere, writer’s block-induced depression and all that. On the other, Best Newcomer’s Fiction Award. Do writers earn loads anyway? Besides JK Rowling, she’s an anomaly. Meh. As an artsy individual, I would’ve been content living on a grass patch with a potato sack dress and an imaginary boyfriend.

(On that note, To be continued.)