nothing more than neurotic & divinely chaotic thoughts.
Fail. Big fat fucking fail.
Right now in this moment, my house is a fucking chaotic mess. A mess. Like if someone poped over unexpectedly I would have a panick attack. Quite literaly.
But why, oh why!? Why can’t I just be like all the fucking rest. Why can’t I just get all my shit together. Why can’t my house look like a show home, with fresh flowers and cookies baking in the fucking oven.
It feels like there are a few things that as a woman we are intrinsicly, fundamentally, instinctively supposed to be good at. But I’m just not. Does that mean I’m not a real woman, or at best just not a successful one?
But realy, truly haven’t we moved past all that?! They declare we have! They say we have freedom now, we have choice & we have power. Do we? Do we realy!?
Is telling us that we don’t need to be a slave to all that shit the very thing that makes us rebel against doing it? And are we then sitting with our feminist morals in a messy house, annoyed because I’ve manicly sifted through this fucking pile of clothes a million fucking times and I can’t fucking find my favourite fucking bra!!! But I’m a woman damn it!! I have more important things to do then sort the fucking washing!!! Don’t I?!
Expectations. Pressure. What are we ‘supposed’ to be. A woman. I feel like there are two competing ideals tugging us this way and that. A woman, perfection, a perfect rag doll.
Keeping house. Keeping fucking house. A model, with abs of steal and an arse to catch a thousand eyes. To know how to be a lady and say sweet things when it matters but also know how to give head like there is no fucking tomorrow. Expect-fucking-tations.
I’m getting off topic. Ugh. Keeping house. I really do suck at it. My house goes through phases, where it’s clean and the cushions and flowers in vases are set just so, don’t sit on the fucking couch or you’ll mess up the cushions. And then I just let go, and the cascade of stuff that fills our house just takes over. From one extreme to the other. Granted a little manic I know. But it is what it is. It bothers me. I’m still working through why.
If its just because of social expectations then fuck it. But let’s be honest, it is annoying having to drink my morning juice out of a coffee mug because all of my 118 glasses are dirty.
Realy what’s a girl to do. Perspective. Just a lil perspective. We are all dressed. We are fed. We are loved. Our clothes are clean, healthy lunches packed. Heels are on. If I don’t need to impress you, then it doesent matter.
Truly I don’t think it does. I hate cleaning. It has to be done.
Cleaning like a boss does not mean I’m not honoring my feminist ideals. And not doing the dishes tonight because I’m exhausted, because I was up at 5am, been out of the house for 12 hours, got three people ready for work and school, came home, did the food shopping and then cooked tea: does not mean I’ve failed as a woman. Does not.
It’s all ok. Permission to just be. It is what it is. Permission.