Like pulling out teeth.

A girl with a wild aversion for mess living in a world of beautiful rockstars and glamorously unglamorous Ke$ha's

I’m not an only child. In fact, my brother and I were separated only by a meager sliding frame door from the ages of two to nineteen. Insufferable, but yes, it taught me a few things.  I knew when he couldn’t fall asleep, when he woke up, if he was drunk and when the room got too stuffy. Because he’d usually - disgruntledly - stretch his tree trunk of an arm towards the window and give it a steady push. I never saw him do this, but I could hear the ‘Ughhhhh.. Click…. Creaaaaaaaaak…. whoooosh.” And then all of the sudden the air was thicker, cooler, wafting in the smells of eucalyptus and dirt. 

I suppose, under these circumstances, I should be excellent at living amidst the mess and chaos of others. But, tragically, I’m not. I hate clutter, it makes my skin itch. If I could, I’d measure the distance between my shoes all lined up. I’d maybe even give up a warm summer afternoon to ‘reset’ the imbalances that Saturday nights bring. If I could, I’d pause the world on its axis for a moment, and take the time to find order in the madness. 

It’s an unfortunate aversion to hate messiness. Especially since what is considered ‘chic’ and ‘sexy’ within this cultural epoch is all about the filth and the muck. It’s supposedly very f**king hot to wake up the next morning, with mascara from the night before staining your under eye bags (or I should really say effortlessly smudged, because I think it's a fallacy to believe we can all wake up looking like Ke$ha in that music video… you know, the one where she wakes up with one shoe in the bathtub, after a not so glamorous night of partying, and yet somehow boys are still ‘blowing up her phone’ and ‘lining up’ to shoot their shot with her). Hair tousled, a big t-shirt, nail beds lined with dirt, maybe even a cigarette hanging from the corner of your mouth. It’s a ‘look’ that screams ‘I haven’t brushed my teeth, I don’t really care what you think but I know you care what I do.’ And it's one that is dubbed for the mystery and indifference it washes over those who sport it. 

Because of my - we’ll call it self-diagnosed OCD - I’m forced to… 

I’ll be completely honest, in my attempt to make a quick cup of coffee while writing whatever trick I’ve come up with to masquerade as the ‘unkempt, unattainable woman,’ I also managed to load the dishwasher, lysol the countertops and take out the garbage. Unbeknownst to me (because I really try not to think about it too much), it made me feel better. Cleaner. More secure. Checking the boxes in my head, not necessarily letting the chips fall where they may, but moving my pawn one square forward. Check mate? I don’t play chess, but I think I feel the same rush of satisfaction and pride decluttering my space as a seasoned player does when his opponent’s King falls weak to his tricks. 

I don’t know, my ex-boyfriend was a chess player… maybe I’m pulling at strings here. 

In spite of my disdain for piles, dust, dirt, crumbs, I’m working to crawl (and eventually rush) towards the chaos. To remain unbothered by the natural weight of the world, as it forces books, clothes, shoes, dishes, all of it, to fall into cracks and crevices. I’ve even forced myself to write a first draft before taking a shower. I can feel the sweat sticking to the back of my knees, and all I can think is how the particles of life that hang outside of my shoebox apartment - smashed between bricks on East 5th -  are soaking into my skin. I hate it. I hate it. I’m uncomfortable. I think my brain is screaming. But I’m trying

.