What do I say? How can I say it? The rubbish pile I call home is too much for me. After sleeping on the same sheets for God knows how many months, I decided to change them. While doing so, I fell into a pile of “stuff” on J’s side of the bed. No harm done, physically, but there was an old hurt it aggravated.
“This house is not a home, at least not my home.”
I don’t live here, I merely exist here, but I can’t let myself breathe or relax or enjoy even the smallest pleasure. This is a place where my dreams die.
And so I must break the stranglehold on my creativity, my imagination. It sucks. It is daunting. The anger and hurt I feel from the alienation that characterizes this clutter, must go into what I write.
Crazy stories, dirty stories may come from me. As if ass-licking and sodomy were the embodiment of alienation. That wound of hurt offers no promise of healing.
Enough for now.
Dispatches From Dystopia 
David: you are in a rare existential form today.
I am. I need to clear my head of a weird dream , involving ex-wife #1 and maybe I can write something.
Like an enema for your mind? I like that.
Is your wife a hoarder? My husband is and it’s a constant battle keeping him from piling up the living areas of the house. I gave up years ago on two bedrooms, the garage, and an outside building that he piles junk in. If I even whisper of getting rid of stuff he hasn’t looked at in 20 years, he either sulks or rages or both. In either case, the fight isn’t worth it.
Oh yes. Hoarding is contagious. I try to keep my side of the “street” clean It resilience and lots of self- love.
I try to keep my side of the street clean as well. My husband and I haven’t slept in the same bedroom in years, and mine is my sanctuary. I’m by no stretch of the imagination a neat-freak, but I do like some sort of order and space to move around in.