When I clean my room; once the initial reluctance has become acceptance of the task at hand, which in turn has become a relish for the project bordering on the maniacal -- or at the very least obsessive compulsive -- once I have finished cleaning my room; after weeks of squalor which feeds on itself because, honestly, what's one more pair of dirty underwear on a floor that I haven't seen in days? When my room is finally clean -- when the last book has been reshelved, the last sock reunited with its partner, the curtains opened so the world can look in again on the whole eminently presentable project ... once everything's finally tidy again in my living space, I like to just sit there and look at it. I sit in my swivel chair, swiveling gently, and take in the carefully arranged CDs, the empty desk space, the made bed, the neat stacks of notebooks, and the folded piles of clothes. When I have a room like that, I just like to sit there and stare at the fucking thing for ages, which is precisely what I've been up to for the last twenty minutes. It just struck me today how weird that is.