He and I really are incredibly messy people.
A brief inventory of the desk at which I sit has turned up three coffee cups, a spoon, a broken camera, earphones, a zipper, $0.37 in Croatian coins, a giant pair of novelty sunglasses, miscellaneous patches from various uniforms, a pile of bills marked "WTF!?" and an Ontario license plate currently serving as our mouse pad.
I like a bit of clutter about, it makes a house feel lived in. It's always a charming surprise to sit down in a chair and discover a great article in a magazine 4 months old. Or the car keys. I have books in every room of the house because I like to read as I go about my morning routine. Husband has multiple projects in various stages of completion scattered here and there because he is brilliant but has the attention span of a gnat. These are the signs of life which our house displays, the things which cry "Busy minds live here, watch where you sit!"
I think we have elevated clutter to an art form. There seems to be a heapiness, a largness of piling-upness. A groaning of counters and kitchen tables. For example the number of absolutely unrelated items which currently inhabit my bathroom counter is quite breathtaking. None of the items have any business on a bathroom counter or, in one fantastically inappropriate case, outside of a BMW K-Model motorcycle transmission.
To those of you out there in Reader Land who are screaming at your computer screens "For the love of all that is sane and Holy, tidy up before your house collapses, creating black hole and sucking us all to our doom!" I say, relax. Life is messy. And black holes are still only theoretical, so there.
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