The unforeseen consquence of decluttering my apartment is now that it is so neat and organized, I don’t need to procrastinate cleaning, so I have no reason to write.
This is a terrible revelation. I only write to procrastinate the things that I should be doing. I have no idea what I’m going to do now.
This is a true story. In my senior year of high school, I became quite proficient at the piano. I’m talking the classics: Debussy, Chopin, Beethoven, all those dead guys. I even entered in a couple of competitions. I could spend hours a day practicing, and got so good at it that when I miraculously attended a four-year school, three years later, after hearing me play, a music instructor at the school said I could consider minoring in music.
I’m assuming a major in music was limited to those who played because they had actually developed a passion for it. Not me. I became so good at the piano that I barely graduated from high school.
This is also true. The only reason why I’ve written as much as I have here is that I have a pile of dirty laundry on my floor.