I'm just checking in because I am at work, I don't have anything to do right now, I don't want to start anything so close to quitting-time, and yet I'm having a manic spurt and can't just sit here looking at beefcake and watching my nails grow.
After I leave today, I am going to Home Depot to buy some more wall-mounting shelves. In an effort to encourage my depression to scram-skedaddle-begone, I have decided to cancel all of my engagements for the weekend (not as big a deal as it sounds, I was just going to go to San Jose Imperial Coronation on Saturday but I simply cannot deal with drag right now) and clean my room. Or at least straighten it up. Or, if nothing else, clear off my bed and put the goddamned sheets back on (I've been sleeping between two bedspreads for a month, and the books and videos are pushing me closer to the edge).
So I was thinking this morning, as I was shuffling through a foot-high pile of videotapes and magazines while trying to find where I put my glasses after I took them off last night, that perhaps if I had even more shelves, if indeed every blank space on my walls supported as many shelves as possible, and if I put my books and videos on those shelves, I might actually have some space in my room in which to move around.
And although I am still in my depression, still on the up-and-down kiddie-coaster of emotions, the very fact that I had such a thought heralds the departure of my depression. This happens every time I get depressed... while I'm wallowing, everything around me goes straight to hell because I simply don't care; but then as the depression starts packing its bags and making its plane reservations, I find myself wanting to clean. I think about how nice it would be to see my carpet. I become entranced by particularly attractive broom-and-dustpan sets and reasonably-priced natural ostrich dusters when browsing around at the store. And I start jonesing for more wall-mounted shelves from Home Depot.
We shall see if I actually make it to the end of the project before I get distracted. Regular readers will remember that I get into these cleaning rages quite frequently, and frequently will put up a new set of wall-mounted shelves during such a rage, but that I never quite finished the job. I think the last time my room was really clean was 2001. And that's because I paid Shiloh to do it.
Oh, well, I don't really care if my room is clean, but I would like to have the rest of my bed to sleep in... what's the point of having a queen-sized bed when you only sleep on a crib-sized portion of it? Well, it's after five, so I'm leaving now. I'll let you know how the shelving goes.