I had the most relaxing weekend to date. That’s not true at all, but close. I left the station Wednesday afternoon a free little Rock Girl with no work, no nothing until Monday morning.
Thursday, the 4th, I went to a party at a friend’s gigantic house. They had 20 acres and a solid 8 motor contraptions... ATVs... Dirt bikes... A dune buggy? Not sure if it was a literal dune buggy but it was bigger than a golf cart and had a roll cage. Roll bar? Roll cage. I’m sure I surprised onlookers when I hopped on a four-wheeler, kick-started it with my little chick sandals, and sped off through the mud. I'm an undercover tomboy. They also rode trucks and Jeeps back in the trails but I steered clear of that- I’m way too accident prone.
Friday and Saturday consisted of beers and tequila by the pool driven by my evident dire need of a tan? Someone asked me on Thursday what happened to my tan. I said I wasn't entirely aware it left, and then quietly shed a single tear. The tan she was referring to was my "I was just in Mexico for a week" tan I had a few weeks ago. People don't just stay "I was just in Mexico for a week" tan. After this weekend though, I’ve gained some serious ground on the tanned-skin front, and can confidently say I’m no longer albino. What I am, however, is dramatic.
I have this weird obsession with organization. I don’t mind if my house is dirty, but when it’s super clean and organized, I’m infatuated with it. There can be clothes all over the ground, laundry piled high, and dust on every surface- fine. It just overwhelms me, I want nothing to do with it, and refuse to clean at all. But once I start cleaning… I can’t stop. This happened to me on Sunday.
I started cleaning and didn’t stop until there were bags of clothes for donation, rearranged furniture, spotless floors, and a garbage can overflowing with used Clorox wipes. Also worth mentioning: this new cabinet I bought from Target. This new cabinet... (I just sighed out loud)… It’s a small, two-shelf black cabinet that I got to store my jeans in. Prior to the jeans cabinet, I had a dumb end-table I simply tossed my jeans on (and beneath) (and next to). Now my bedroom looks so organized I can hardly stand it. The fact that I’m still talking about the cleanliness of my room is pathetic. Now you understand the obsession. This blog has become entirely boring. (No one cares where you store your stupid jeans, Rock Girl.)
On that note: Adios.xo Lyndsey
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