cliiiiche! An eclectic collection of Merengue Mexican music and BT is rocking my ears as I clean my apartment. I have so much to do, I absolutely have to stop and write. Isn't that how this silly thing works? I spend every night screwing around, from whenever I get off work to when I go to sleep, and the day I absolutely have to work, I want to write. Proof. Edit. Fix.
I think housekeeping is an extension of mental housecleaning. I think filing, writing, improving the mental state is a form of meditation, and a form of developing harmony. Cleaning the home is the same way, so it makes sense that I equate cleaning the apartment, working out, running, painting, writing, all to the same thing. As within, so without, as Soren says. He keeps developing as I work. Little pieces.
I know so much more of Bethany now that she's left me. We still talk. Everything that could go wrong, since she left, has. For her, at least. I've had some rough spots, but it's been peripheral. So far. Work notwithstanding. She's been going through some rough times, and although she left me and we're separated, I think she left for the right reasons. She has no interest in me. The more time we spend apart, the more settled I feel about it. Before she left, I thought I could never consider an ex lover a friend. Even a little bit. Jury is still out, really. We'll never be close as friends. And without the input from future lovers (if Bethany knew someone like Bethany was an ex, she'd say "HELL NO you aren't talking to her ever again, so help me God." I have to respect future "her" input), we could continue to be friends.
Funky.
So, back to cleaning. Breakfast chicken lo mein over, back to the grind. So much garbage I didn't know I had. Cleaning out fridge, vacuuming, wiping every. Damn. Surface. Down. And that bathroom. I think a flamethrower couldn't get the buildup off that tub.
And maybe some proofreading. But probably not.
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