Oh..shit. Was bored and when I'm bored I tend to get into trouble. I watch weird things on Netflix. Usually they're too weird to even talk about but this time...well, this time I watched Tidying Up with Marie Kondo and now we're all completely and utterly...fucked.
(I know. I don't think I'm an actual girl. They wouldn't act like this.)
The boys like the show. Because we're all about self-improvement over here anyway and because half of them, or perhaps five-quarters of them (at least) are burgeoning metrosexuals as it is, they've decided we need to do that. Purge. Tidy. Organize.
Nevermind this house is as neat as a pin. One of the funnest, most horrible parts of living in a communal family environment is that if everything doesn't have a place, there's nowhere to put something back and it will subsequently disappear. Into the void. Forever.
(For example, we have four missing ipads currently, because they don't have a place, technically speaking.)
So we're very neat, and exceedingly tidy. I think, anyway.
Ben has already folded all of his t-shirts so that they are stacked vertically on their edges and he swears he knows what he has now. I had a quick gander and noticed at least two hundred black band t-shirts in the drawer.
You can't see the logos.
Yeah, I know.
I have three bags of clothing to donate and I only spent five minutes staring at my closet, wondering what brings me joy. Well, none of it does, frankly, as I don't shop for therapy, pleasure or comfort. I shop because being nude is unacceptable.
I hate clothes. So it's easy to pick all black and pretend it fits/is comfortable/is warm enough/cold enough/appropriate enough.
(I know. I don't think I'm an actual girl. They wouldn't act like this.)
ACTUALLY, my Valentino dresses bring me joy but they're formal.
So there.
(Do I get my girl cred back?
No? Fine.)
We've pledged to work through the weekend, since it's going to be stormy anyway, because everything and everyone has room for improvement, right?