Today I said to myself, "Self. You are full of crap."
I walked into our third bedroom (used to be the "wedding room," instead it was an empty room filled with junk that drives me craaaaazy so I don't go in there) last night. I expected it to be more empty than when I last entered it. Happy Hubby was supposed to clean out all the junk so we don't move it across country.
Last week, just days before he left for Greenville, I walked upstairs, noticed the door was open and Hubster was sitting indian-style, looking intently at objects on the floor.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Cleaning stuff out," he said.
"Oh really," I questioned skeptically.
"Yeah, because if I don't you'll just throw everything out."
"Ha!" He knows me so well. I walked out and didn't hink of it again... until last night. Behold, an episode of "Hoarders" exploded in that room. Piles and piles of the "stuff" he was looking at covered the carpet. Anxiety attack! KA-POW!
I have a reoccuring nightmare that I am in a cold concrete room surrounded by stacks and stack of paper. Suddenly the cieling fan goes on and the cieling-high stacks begin to sway. Single sheets of white paper float down on top of my head. I start to brush them off but then they come faster and faster, I keep flainging my arms and covering my face, but they keep coming faster, there's so many... AHHHHHH! and then I assume I am crushed (and probably covered in thousands of tiny papercuts) because the dream is over.
|Get Me Out of Here!|