Normally (and I find the manner I overuse this adverb peculiar), I wait for two to three weeks to gather my dirty clothes for laundry. This was not the case before. Not so long ago, when I was still living in Mandaluyong, no matter how late I went home or how preoccupied I was with work and schooling, I made sure I had already taken my laundry to the shop below my building before Sunday. This was to make sure that I had enough space for other things in my 3.5 square-meter room in a unit I was renting that time.

Now, however, I let my dirty clothes accumulate for three weeks and sometimes a month before I take them to the laundry shop just across the building where I am staying. And it is disturbing sometimes how the cabinet where I store them gets too full. I always have to kick the doors with so much force I inevitably hurt my right big toe.

Having my laundry done regularly has become a burden to me. It’s also exhausting sorting them.

Seriously, I got nothing really to say in this post. I just thought of writing something tonight in my lame attempt to free my thoughts of the nothingness it has enjoyed basking in for the past days, perhaps weeks. It’s amazing how the human mind degenerates the moment we let it succumb to the comforting hum of routine. Some less tactful people would call it rut; I would call it comfort.

I haven’t done any substantial readings for weeks now. I find myself hopelessly looking forward to the end of the week when it’s just Monday. I guess it takes so much honesty to admit that nothing much is happening in and to one’s life. That’s exactly what I feel this time. Nothing is happening. To me and to my dirty clothes.

I need to have them washed soon.