I realise that today is a Tuesday.

It’s the day for tacos and treating yourself and, maybe, an alliteration-based excuse for pharmacies to push tinea ointment.

It’s generally not a day when you are gifted with an update on my fabulous cluster fuck of a life.

But I can explain.

You see, I moved over the weekend and I’m still all over the proverbial shop.

I may have most of my worthless possessions in one place now (except of course for an entire house’s worth of stuff that’s still at my parents and my festival kit – an esky and gumboots – sitting under my sister’s house) but that doesn’t have the calming affect I would have liked.

Because I’m living in a room with no built in wardrobes.

Now, I’m aware that’s not a massive deal. A rational person might just have bought wardrobe when while they were in Ikea for FOUR HOURS on Saturday, but you and I both know I’m not that kind of girl.

I’m the kind of girl who still thinks she’s going to take off into the sunset one afternoon following some kind of dramatic but endearing emotional breakdown and follow the coastline home. “Home” in this scenario would not be a place, but a corner of my heart. It will be a journey that will lead to a book that will lead to a Jennifer Lawrence film* and an hour special with Oprah. And I can’t be so Angus and Julia Stone-esque carefree if I’m weighed down with furniture, you know?

Once you buy furniture you lose your Holly Golightly aroma of mystery and adorable waifishness. You’re no longer an eginmatic riddle of a woman, but just another lonely spinster with a stinky old cat.

Nope, you have to remain aloof and rootless.

And this is all well and good when all you wear are little black dresses, but when you’re an op shopper with hoarder tendencies things become a little tricky. There’s no order. There’s nowhere to hang your sequinned top or store your pony jumper. Everything you have is strewn across the floor.

I’m very well aware that my life is a mess but I don’t want this reflected in my décor. I prefer to keep my possessions in order to give me the illusion that my personal affairs are also neat and tidy. Perhaps this kind of diversionary logic is why my life is currently in the state it’s in. Who’s to know?

Having things haphazardly shoved in a corner isn’t just unslightly, but it eats away a my very soul. I think that’s why I haven’t slept very well over the last we nights. The disarray is haunting me. It is destroying me. In fact, if anyone ever tried to torture information out of me, this might be the quickest way to break my spirit and bring about a confession.

So this afternoon I did the best I could to put my blob of clothing into some order. My shirts are folded in a laundry basket under my bed. I have my skirts hanging on a clothes rack. My DVDs are lined up neatly along the wall.

Sure, it’s far from worthy of those homewares magazines they have in doctors’ waiting rooms, but at least it’s vaguely functional. Again, just like my life.

Now all I need is my path-alternating breakdown to inspire my book and then I might be able to afford a wardrobe.

Any day now.

* I say Jennifer Lawrence because I generally like what she’s about, plus I’m hoping that by the time I get around to making a movie about my pathetic life she might be going through a lull and will take on any role to revive her career. I’m also hoping that we become close friends as a result of our collaboration and go on to take awesome holidays together in our 40s.