I read “The Magic of Tidying Up” by Marie Konto and have been walking around my house chucking random objects ever since. Marie would be aghast. She is squarely against intermittent tidying and more in favor of the tsunami approach. In case you were unaware, this Marie Konto is a cult leader. If you read the book and then you do not properly follow directions, you feel like you just got put on the universe's naughty short list.
Sadly I suck at following directions, ask any of my lopsided DIY endeavors. This is why I’ve spent the past month seeking off-road tidying opportunities. I want to write my own rules like Sacajawea and her sidekicks Lewis and Clark. I want all the glory while lounging on my petard in fuzzy slippers surrounded by piles of old magazines.
Tidying Up while Lying Down:
This morning on the sofa, I have a genius idea. I will sort my iTunes playlist by “date last played” and then consider getting rid of mp3s I haven’t listened to for awhile. Hard drive clutter, consider yourself bagged up and put on the curb.
Turns out, I own a whole fandango of songs unplayed since 2004. Except all the 2004 songs are Christmas songs. I decide to wait until Christmas to lose the Christmas songs. Purging while not in the throes of holiday spirit might be a terrible mistake.
On to 2005:
I like the Fugees. I will not delete the Fugees. I hit play. Now all the songs I haven’t listened to since 2005 I listened to moments ago. This is not going well.
And then the entire operation goes totally off the rails. Because maybe every year i should listen to the ten-year-old songs like some kind of motherfucking tradition. This is a whole year of my life we’re talking about. If I delete these songs off my hard drive, then there will be no trunk of dusty digital vinyl for anybody to find after my eventual death or poorly performed computer upgrade. Poof. Gone without even a crappy yard sale.
All this could be resolved by simply embracing streaming music, some people might pipe up. These people do not understand ancient ass philosophizers such as myself. My gnarled fingers managed to press record and play at the same time. I remember what it was like before velcro.
Slutty GenX Problems with Streaming Cloud Music:
Here's my gypsy child of a conundrum. I like to get my sweaty hands all over songs and make them my bitches. I housebreak the suckers. Spotify is a musical red light district and I’m the worst kind of tart. How can you own the cow if you buy the milk in cartons at Duane Reed?