Because I'm Too Lazy To Clean My Room, I'll Blog About How Dirty It Is Instead.

I am living in a crime scene.

Or that’s how it appears to be.

It is noon. I wake up and I see my room is not as clean and organized as it used to be. I have always known myself as a well-organized person but seeing my room in such disarray makes me think otherwise.  I have been telling myself for the past few weeks that one of these days I’ll clean my rathole, but whenever I feel the urge to get up and get a broom, I sit down, close my eyes until the urge passes. Procrastination sets in, laziness gets the best of me and the room stays messy. People may call it a pig sty, but I call it necessary chaos.

I sleep on a futon mattress. Since I have problems sleeping on high beds, I choose to situate myself closer to the Earth when I rest. Physics tells us that a low center of gravity makes an object more stable in its balance. And since I’m deathly scared of unnecessary heights, I choose to sleep closer to the ground.  Looking at my “pseudo bed” I notice that I’ve been sleeping on a half naked foam, meaning there’s no bed sheet per se; just a thin yellow cover that stretches across the bed. I look at my three pillows, and none of them are wearing their respective pillow cases. I look for them and I see them over a stack of clean laundry that’s been delivered to my room a few days ago. That reminds me, I haven’t folded my laundry yet.  A few inches from my clean clothes are the dirty ones. Disgusting, I know. I see dirty underwear, soiled shirts and pants only a few inches away from the clean ones. How I haven’t mistaken wearing the dirty ones is beyond me. 

I look at my walls. They’re supposed to be white, but I can’t tell what their color is now so I’m going to pretend  that they’re still white. I see a couple of inside-out jeans hanging over a nail I’ve put on the wall and you can still see the mud stains at bottom part.  Creepy.  What’s creepier is, I can’t remember the last time I wore those jeans. Next to my muddy pants is another pair of jeans, a sando, a pair of shorts, a scarf (don’t ask) hanging on one single hook.  I walk over to it and smell if they’re still good. I can’t tell.

Over to another corner, I have the spot where I put my shoes. Good thing some of them still look like footwear albeit the week-old mud marks and sand dunes building under them.  Then I see my Chinese helmet toy resting on one of my shoe and the black box where I keep all my important papers resting on a pair of slippers I’ve been looking for for the past couple of days. Hello tsinelas, there you are!

I then see my gray messenger bag sprawled open at the tip of my mattress. It’s still wet from the last time I went out, so naturally it left moist traces on my bed. I don’t even want to look at what’s inside the bag. I see a pair of dirty underwear sitting next to it. I can’t remember if they’re mine though. Upon closer examination, I think they are, though it’s funny how I can’t remember when they started looking like *that*.  I turn my head to the side and I see a three foot-pile of books arranged beautifully like a stack of Jenga blocks. One wrong move or a renegade fly sitting on top of it would cause the tower to tumble down. From where I’m sitting right now, I can see dust building on the covers-which means I haven’t done anything remotely intellectual for quite a while. I better catch up on my reading.  Next to my “smart”books is my magazine rack with folded and torn issues of men's magazines. There are cobwebs on top of the rack. Open pages. Ear dog page marks. I guess the universe is sending a not-so-subtle message for me to read them too.

I almost stepped on an empty bottle of Tanduay Ice next to an entanglement of electrical sockets and cords.  I better return that bottle soon as I tend to forget these sort of things. I also noticed a pack of maroon Gudang Garam cigs, which I bought two years ago, next to a recently-reposed hard drive. I bent over to check and to my surprise I have a few more sticks left. Oh joy! If only I can find where I put my lighter. I lift the two day-old Abante newspaper lying next to me only to find it wasn’t there; but I did find the missing toe of my Kratos God of War action figure. That cricket lighter is bound to show up here somewhere. As I reach for my phone, I also see a bottle of Mojitos gold tequila next to my bed. On top of it is the shot glass which acts as the bottle cap because I can't find that stupid bottle cap anywhere. As I raise the bottle, I was thrilled to see that there still an approximate ten milliliters left. I promised my lips that it would taste that sweet liquid later on, after I’m done cleaning my room, if ever I clean it. Last drops are often the sweetest and pack the strongest punch, you see.

Now as I look at the chaos around me, I can’t help but ask if there is a need for me to clean up my space and organize my life. 

Should one be happy living this way?

If only mankind is smart enough to invent a self-cleaning room or a machine that has the ability to go to a parallel universe where your room is clean and organized, I wouldn’t have these thoughts.

Where’s that damn tequila?

Your Honor, exhibit A