wild hairs

no, I'm not talking about the ones that get ingrown on your butt and require a trip to the doctor to drain, or a mad session of squeezing until a pile of pus oozes onto your hand and almost makes you throw up due to the amount that is now sitting in your palm.

No, I'm talking about the one that makes you want to clean.

I'm sitting here now, listening to big man tell Keira to come here and talk to me. She's ignoring him. While she does that, (ooh, now she's screeching! my favorite sound before 7 am) I'm contemplating cleaning off ALL THE BOOKSHELVES (there are five in this room..wait, six) and *gasp* arranging pictures on them (for all the good it does...someone will knock them over and step on the glass for sure)

And then, on to the cd shelf. it's a disaster. not only does it have a cd collection on it, it's also covered in candles (that big pat uses as anchors for the incense we're addicted to), jars of random stuff, including the melatonin (that I really need to refill), the knock-off icy hot, a thermometer (the mercury/glass kind) that I can't read (no seriously, I can't) and god knows what else.

And if I *actually* get that done, I'm moving into my room to fold the what, 12 boxes/baskets of clothes that are piled up. If I'm successful with *that*, I might even dust the headboard and dresser tops, and empty those boxes of books that have been sitting there since we thought we were moving, but didn't because the park manager was a douchebag motherfucker who needs a reality check. But anyway.