Abby's coming over to check out the digs. I was cleaning, and then I realized I wasn't cleaning. I was rearranging. I wanted everything to look lived in. Not messy, but certainly not clean. I never want it to look clean, because then it would be clear that I cleaned. I wanted to appear as though I didn't live in squalor or disarray, but not cleanliness.
BUT, Abby knows this. She's seen my unprepared disarray in multiple states. She knows the messy-but-I-know-where-everything-is.
I forgot that I want to appear things, all the time. I want to sweep my bangs off my forehead to keep from looking like someone who Wouldn't sweep his bangs off his forehead.
Also, they're all sweaty. Damn it's hot in the city, right?
I don't keep tabs on this kind of stuff. I don't notice, most of the time. I try not to notice how prepared I am. Like I'm my own proctor.
At some point, I just become what I appear to be. But I haven't stopped pretending not to care about appearing like I pretend to care about appearances.
On a different note, I've discovered in how many ways prose can be awful. Clear sentences, philosophers. Clear.
Please.
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