(no subject)

[timepiececlock]

Supposedly in 45 minutes my dad will return home and clean my room--- a misnomer, really, because he intends to put everything in crates and dump it outside until my room is empty, which is hardly what I'd call cleaning. Of course, he claims that my cleaning is merely rearranging. I said of course it is, that's all it's ever going to be when you're a reincarnated packrat. But don't worry, they can be in nice, organized piles. This didn't stand well with him, and so at 3:00pm the cleaning will come, despite my efforts to point out that I'm 19-almost-20-and-aren't-we-getting-a-little-carried-away-here-don't-you-DARE-touch-my-bookshelf.

I'm tempted to lock my bedroom door, put a note outside saying I'm feeling wrteched and disturbed and vaugely Van-Gogh-ish look at my ear so please leave me alone, then no matter what never answer the door and never come out again.

The only problem is that this would be so wildly out of character for me that my parents probably *would* think I was disturbed, and start thinking I wasn't getting enough lengthy talks with them or something.

Comments

[caille.livejournal.com]

We could, collectively, write you a note. Might that help? Okay, so this isn't "collective", but I'm using the royal We anyway.

Dear ShakaPop:

While we understand and appreciate the importance of teaching young Shakaberry the excellent qualities of Neatness, Cleanliness, and Next-to-Godliness, we respectfully ask you to consider declaring 'Shakaville a "no-fly zone", until such point as it becomes so foul and nasty that it would be more accurately designated a "fly zone", like, with maggots and everything.

We are making this extra-special request because we strongly believe in 'Shaka's astonishing creative gifts, and we should simply loathe any inadvertent stultification of those gifts.

Plus she's holding our drugs for us.

Love,

Cail ("old Hag") le