Confessions of a messy person

My life is even remotely organized. My mind seems to reject the idea of organization the way Finnegans Wake rejects interpretation, or Neville Longbottom rejects memory retention . (On a side note, I would also like to add that I should be lynched, literarily speaking, for referencing James Joyce and J. K. Rowling in the same sentence.) For me, organization is like some unobtainable platonic form: it exists out there, in the 17th dimension perhaps, just existing in its state of perfectioness and essenseness, and yet completely removed from the entire content of my experience. My attempts to become organized are always disastrous. I end up with bigger messes. On occasion, I do attain some semblance of order, however, my unconsciousness immediately senses this upset in equilibrium, and, behind my back, subtly begins destroying the order that I thought I had created. This disorder infects ever facet of my life. Much of my time is spent looking for my keys, shoes, or wallet. And yet somehow, in the midst of this disaster, I manage to hold it all together. It makes no sense to my friends and family, and when they ask how on earth I can productively function with such a lifestyle, I give a coy, knowing smile, while underneath I’m thinking, “Man, your guess is as good as mine. I have no flippen clue.”

My approach to writing is just as much of a mystery to me. I have no idea how I write papers. I just start thinking and writing. Somehow they get written, and sometimes they aren’t half bad. I don’t know why. This is not a good method by the way. It take ages to construct papers. But what can I say? I guess I’m just a deconstructionistivistic girl living in a deconstructionistivistic world.