![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
In my car, there are Pepsi cans, old class notes, neon index cards, three ugly shirts, a stained pair of khaki pants that don't fit, sheets of black matboard, the remains of a cardboard artist's portfolio, cheap paint, origami paper, at least one stray sock, four coffee mugs, a package of pads, two textbooks from last semester, a hairbrush, scrap fabric, tattered shreds of paper, and my undying shame that all of this junk had to be relocated to the back seat under the sardonic eye of my dear friend in search of the battery compartment for my mysteriously-dead car.
(If I ever desperately need to have every single person in screaming distance stare at me, I'll call a tow truck and ask them to back into a parking garage. The cacophonous backup alert noise echoes nicely and I'm told the look of fearful apprehension my face as I watch the driver maneuver backwards around the clearance bar is a sight to behold.)
I've been meaning to clean out my beloved, beleaguered Prius for well over a year now, but in the past I've been stymied by embarrassment, distraction, and laziness. Well, that is going to change today. It needs to get taken to the dealership to get properly recharged anyway and I hate to contemplate what they'd think of my poor cluttered baby. I do love my Spaceship, I just don't like cleaning it. It would be easier if I didn't have to park on the street in a neighborhood of nice but conservative and compulsively tidy older people. Every time I walk out the door in a short, short skirt or carry an armload of trash from car to garbage bin, I feel judged.
Plan of attack for car cleanup: back to the street, headphones on, a trash bin in one hand and a box to bring in stuff of mine in the other, all the while drowning out the silent, imagined chorus of young lady you are such a hot mess it's shameful with The Black Keys. And after that, with any luck, today's going to be my second day volunteering for an animal rescue organization. Should be fun.
(If I ever desperately need to have every single person in screaming distance stare at me, I'll call a tow truck and ask them to back into a parking garage. The cacophonous backup alert noise echoes nicely and I'm told the look of fearful apprehension my face as I watch the driver maneuver backwards around the clearance bar is a sight to behold.)
I've been meaning to clean out my beloved, beleaguered Prius for well over a year now, but in the past I've been stymied by embarrassment, distraction, and laziness. Well, that is going to change today. It needs to get taken to the dealership to get properly recharged anyway and I hate to contemplate what they'd think of my poor cluttered baby. I do love my Spaceship, I just don't like cleaning it. It would be easier if I didn't have to park on the street in a neighborhood of nice but conservative and compulsively tidy older people. Every time I walk out the door in a short, short skirt or carry an armload of trash from car to garbage bin, I feel judged.
Plan of attack for car cleanup: back to the street, headphones on, a trash bin in one hand and a box to bring in stuff of mine in the other, all the while drowning out the silent, imagined chorus of young lady you are such a hot mess it's shameful with The Black Keys. And after that, with any luck, today's going to be my second day volunteering for an animal rescue organization. Should be fun.
