Here is a mantra by which I like to live my life: There is a difference between disorganized and disgusting; piles and loose papers are messy but at least they're germ-free, old food and bodily fluids are fucking nasty, I don't care how nicely your bed is made, you better clean that shit up. (OK, it's not that refined of a mantra. I'm working on shortening it a bit and losing the curse words and also probably getting that semi colon out of there. But the message is accurate, right?)
I get a lot of crap for being disorganized. I get it from my parents, my friends and my roommates. My bed is never made, I leave things all over the house, I don't put papers in folders or binders, and I don't fold clothes. GET USED TO IT. I am a disorganized person and it has never put me at a disadvantage in life, except maybe for that one time back in ‘Nam when I was sniped by that Viet Cong because I didn't have my artillery in order. That's in the past and it's time to move on.
The thing that pisses me off is the hypocrisy of anyone who criticizes me for being disorganized, because usually this person is the grossest son of a bitch I have ever met. This person is the kind of person who has an organized desk and folded underwear, but also a collection of phlegmy tissues stewing in the bedside trashcan next to the loaf of Italian bread that has been arbitrarily developing a mold colony under the bed for a month. Anything you will find in this person's mini fridge is probably growing hair and starting to develop a pulse. If you suggest to this friend that he or she clean out the fridge, however, this person will insist that you just throw away the entire fridge and start over.
Take for example, my roommate. I heart her to the moon and back, but she will freely comment about the sheer volume of stuff I accumulate, and scold me until I stack it in a pile and shove it under the couch or something. Meanwhile, I can't help but chortle at the fork covered in chocolate cake that has been festering on her desk for the entire weekend. I'm beginning to realize that it's in the nature of rich Indian people to leave their cutlery out and wait for the Utensil Fairy to come clean it up for them. This may actually just be a trait of rich people. Or Indian people. I wouldn't know either way.
Anyway, in attempts to prevent the tiny South Asian girl who sleeps next to me from strangling me in the dark of night, I decided to start designating places for my stuff. Other than the floor, I mean. So a couple days ago, I set out to purchase shelves, bins, baskets, and any other plastic orifices that might act as home to the loads of crap I hoard. This is how my desk looked following that effort:
Clearly, you can see that the whole organizing thing didn't work out. But surely your eyes are drawn to the obnoxious, orange floral box that now sits atop my mountain of creativity. What is this said box? This, my friends, is the one step that I have taken toward a more organized existence, and my new favorite thing in the whole entire world.
Behold my new, miniature, portable refrigerator. What is so precious, but small enough that it would warrant its own place in this fucking adorable invention?
Why, a 6 pack of cheap beer, of course. (Yes, the fridge indeed does hold 6 beers, but why would you expect me to actually own 6 unopened beers at a time? This has never happened.)
Now finally I have a designated spot for my guilty pleasure other than the fridge in our kitchen or the other miniature fridge my roommate has next to her bed. This fridge is PURPOSE SPECIFIC, which is a defining feature of organization. Equipped with a handle for portability, I'll look as cute as I do practical when toting my alcohol around the apartment building on Tuesday evenings. It even has a hot setting to keep things warm, like my autumnal hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps.
I may still have clutter, but a travel case for beer? Now that's neat! (Get it? Get it!? Ah, I'm great.)