Dear internets, I have a confession!
I moved in
May. Here we are halfway through January and I still have boxes I haven't finished unpacking. Mostly because when stuff is in boxes, I don't have to figure out where to put it.
I have been doing
bitesizedcleaning for a week now.
Hyperbole and a Half was kind of a revelation for me in that I realized I'm not a unique failure as a human being for my inability to clean all the things. It's a cycle that happens to kind of a lot of people. However, my best intentions to spend fifteen minutes a day cleaning up tended to be undercut by the amorphousness of "cleaning" and also "day." (Yes, really: I had a tendency to shunt it off until evening, when at best I am tired and hungry and at worst WHY DO I HAVE TO GO UP ALL THE STAIRS? STIEG LARSSON HAD TO GO UP ALL THE STAIRS AND HE DIED! It's true, look it up.)
Anyway, I'm doing okay now but I know better than to get over-confident after just a week. I need to cull my books again; I need to unpack my boxes just to get stuff out of them; I need to make a scale diagram of my room and figure out if there's some more efficient way to arrange my furniture once the boxes are out of the way.
And I need to return my unused bridesmaid shoes to Zappos, AAAGH.The unfortunate consequence of culling my books and very carefully choosing what I'm going to buy is that there's not much left to cull, but there are still a lot of books. I believe that I don't own nearly enough books and it's just that my apartment is too small, but I don't know how to fix that short of moving to the midwest.
It's a problem that a huge portion of my closet space is being monopolized by flattened boxes, but I don't really want to get rid of them either, considering that I would like to move as soon as I can afford to, and may have to move before then.