So I know we're all pretty good e-friends here on the internet, but in my opinion, you don't really know someone until you've seen their bedroom.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: Hot Messville, population: 1 (actually, 2, but Toby is only a citizen out of obligation, so he doesn't really count).
Toby calls scenes like the ones above my "explosions". He uses the term endearingly most of the time, because for some reason he thinks all of my flaws are cute (*cough*brainwashed*cough*). I use the term in an exasperated way, because ugh, Rachel, why can't you get your shit together? No matter where I go, even if I'm only there for five minutes, an explosion of some sort happens.
Needless to say, I spent a lot of time cleaning up messes.
Sometimes I wonder if my explosions aren't actually a subconscious kind of procrastination - like if I distract myself enough with my own messiness, I won't have to deal with all of the lingering tasks and ideas that will actually benefit me. There's no way to tell, really. I think I'm probably just messy.
Anyway, whenever the explosion is not contained in a reasonable amount of time, it tends to grow outward exponentially. In my bedroom, the source of the explosion is usually my closet; it creeps out over the floor, up onto the desk, and under the bed. When it takes over the top of the bed, that's when I know it's time to clean (you might think that I'd consider "time to clean" to be when the entire floor is covered with clothes. You'd be wrong.).
Today, I had the day off. After only being awake for about an hour, the bed was covered with ALL THE THINGS, so I knew I needed to take action. And ah, the cleansing and purging that did occur. I even went so far as to do some of those aforementioned lingering tasks! I even swept. High five.
What can I say? I am a really good cleaner. Experiential education, folks.