disarray and academic impotence

So, the state of my room mirrors my life. There's a clean white load but it's in a pile near my wardrobe. 150+ photocopied pages of No Future perch precariously on my bedside table next to a pint glass of water. Doc and Fluff and the assigned Poppy Z. Brite book are cuddling by my bed, Epistemology of the Closet is splayed across mounds of photocopied philosophy readings I probably should have bothered to read after dropping money on, On the Coherence of Gothic Conventions is buried in there too because I obviously have no idea what the fuck I'm writing my Queer Gothic paper on. In short my room is a mess and it's driving me crazy. When my mental life is smooth and organized, I get shit done in a room where the only mess is well-constrained to a desktop stacked with too many books and scraps of paper. Now, I get fuck-all done and my room is crying out to be tidied.

Today's gonna be the day, guys. I mean that in the almost-apocalyptic, work-will-finally-get-done-and-my-life-will-fall-into-place sense in which Matt and I were fond of using it last semester. Except I think then it was, "tomorrow's gonna be the day." Telling, really.

But if I can just write my Irish Lit paper, clean my room, get some sort of physical exercise, and maybe even spend a few minutes mindfully breathing, shit would be so good.