Thursday, August 22, 2019

Reading

Even as someone who claimed to love reading/writing her whole life, the truth was, by college, I very rarely read for fun. One of the main reasons was because there were too many alternatives: from social media to videos to endless feeds, there are now countless forms of media that are easier to consume than books. 

In moderation, these new sources of entertainment can enhance and diversify the way we engage with the world. In excess, as most of us know, they can do the opposite. But even when I told myself reading was important, I had trouble committing to it. Reading took effort, didn't immediately inform or entertain me the way other media did, and ultimately, felt like a waste of time in a world where every second was rationed. 

But recently (and ironically), a combination of more free time in the summer and a video I found on Youtube helped me think of reading in a new way. The crux was this: the "precious time" I thought I would waste by reading was in fact already being used up by things that had little value to me. Activities like mindlessly scrolling through feeds, though I only did them for seconds at a time, added up to countless minutes, half-hours, even hours per day. And the worst part was that despite this investment, it would never build into anything worthwhile. 

Think about it this way: if you worked out for just 20 min a way, you would see amazing benefits to your health in just a few months. The commitment adds up. But digital entertainment? In the past year, I realized that I'd probably spent hundreds of hours on it, and yet had no meaningful wisdom, insight, or knowledge to show for it. If anything, the only rewards from these hours of investment were lethargy, cynicism, and empty dissatisfaction. 

The same comparison applies to books. When I realized that a simple ten minutes of reading a day would not be eating into my free time, but instead, replacing that kind of numbing consumption, I felt a lot freer to sit down for an extended period of time and just read. And as the summer comes to a close, I have one key takeaway--the making of a reading habit is neither easy nor instantaneous, but its positive reward is abounding. 

Reading is often not the most immediately stimulating activity available to us. Nine times out of ten, I can cure boredom much more efficiently by scrolling through a feed or watching a video. But unlike either of these activities, reading produces benefits that are long-term, and with the right material, add up to a lifetime of fulfillment, learning, and wonder for the world around us. From an increase in knowledge and appreciation for others' experiences, to even tangible improvements to mental health, the positive results of reading are endless.

So in short: more than ever, the act of reading is incredibly valuable! If anyone has been trying to get into it again, I hope watching that video gave you a little boost of inspiration the way it did for me. 

And lastly, since it'd be a shame to not give a recommendation as that was the original purpose of the tag that started this: The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck. If you're like me, it's one of those books you've always known about but never thought to actually pick up and read, right? Well if you're looking for a sign, here it is: THIS BOOK IS PROBABLY ONE OF THE BEST (TOP 3?? POSSIBLY THE BEST??) BOOKS I'VE READ IN THE PAST FIVE YEARS (YES, THAT'S INCLUDING THE FOUR YEARS I WAS LITERALLY AN ENGLISH MAJOR IN COLLEGE); IT IS BEAUTIFUL, WISE, UNASSUMING, YET STRIKINGLY HUMAN ALL AT ONCE AND IT'S FAMOUS ENOUGH WHERE LITERALLY ANY LIBRARY NEAR YOU WOULD HAVE IT SO YOU CAN EVEN GET IT FOR FREE SO PLEASE PLEASE CONSIDER GIVING IT A TRY

And let me know how it is if you do. 


Thursday, January 17, 2019

Why Cats?

The Snoozy Cat has been in existence for four years now. Four years, and no one has asked me an incriminating, but important question: why cats? 

The short answer is I actually have no idea. If I had to come up with an explanation, I guess it's because when I was first considering starting a blog with pictures, cats were just the easiest thing I knew how to draw. As an added bonus, if I drew myself as a white cat, I wouldn't have to bother with coloring or shading either. Putting it that way, I guess the artistic inspiration for this blog was efficiency and laziness. 
But while my answer to why I am a cat on this blog is rather lackluster, my love for cats is the real deal. Once in a while, someone will ask me why I love cats so much and I become so overcome with emotion that I mentally explode. But there are legitimate reasons, really--I've just never had the opportunity to hash them out before. Thus, presenting...


The first reason is a no-brainer: cats love to sleep.

This is an age-old phenomenon. When I was young, I remember one of my favorite books was an illustrated book about cats. I read it cover-to-cover so many times that most of its intriguing factoids are seared in my subconscious to this day (for example, did you know that the Manx cat actually loves to swim, and the oldest cat lived to almost 40?)

The one that stuck out to me the most, though, was that cats will spend as much as two-thirds of their entire lives asleep. Think about that. If, at this very instant, I summoned three cats from the global cat population, chances are only one of them would be awake. Basically, the name "snoozy cat" is redundant. For cats, sleeping is just a way of life. 

Another reason I love cats is because they're essential parts of being a cat lady, a vision I sometimes have for my future. It's not that I necessarily aspire to be devoid of human companionship into the dusk of my life. But once in a while, especially during winter break, I look at my disheveled face and uncombed hair in the mirror and think to myself, "Hey, at least you have a backup plan." 

In fact, when I was younger, I often dreamed of a day when nothing would stop me from amassing as many cats as I wanted in my own home. I've since been hit with the harsh reality that my husband would probably never allow this, but nonetheless, the dream lives on. To this day, one of my first career goals is to be in a position where I can reasonably and comfortably support a cat. 

People sometimes give me strange looks when I tell them this. I can understand the confusion. But if you think about it, it's a pretty good benchmark for life, the way I've set it up--basically, if you see me with a cat one day, you'll know I'm doing pretty well. For the unconvinced, a rigorous proof to explain my reasoning:

Sometimes I feel a bit sad that my intense love for cats seems to be a social anomaly. One of my worst memories from my primary school days was when a boy in my class got a puppy and bragged to the class about how dogs were the best pets in the world. When I asked him about cats, he looked at me incredulously and said, "Are you kidding? Cats are so annoying." I grew up in a pretty small town, so for the rest of my pre-college education, whenever I saw that boy, something in the back of my mind would get triggered and I'd remember he was a cat hater. 

But anyway, I digress. I think this stereotype is simply a misunderstanding. As someone who adores her dog now, I feel like I understand both sides of the coin. Cats can be more standoffish, true--but I think to interpret this as unfriendliness is unfair to them. Cats are simply more introspective animals, especially compared to the blubbery blob that is the common dog. Sometimes I'd imagine, people might actually prefer that. 

For example, there have been times when I wished I could just lie down with my dog and pet her for a couple of minutes. But usually, she's so hyper-active that she interprets my affection as wanting to play. As soon as I touch her, she instantly perks up and runs off to the tennis ball basket, leaving me on the floor and alone. I want to believe Alphie loves me, but whenever she does this, I'm forced to question her priorities. 

But cats are often gentle, quiet companions. If you're just not feeling it one day, there's no need to fake it for your cat. It'll just sit there and purr happily as you stroke it while wolfing down a bag of potato chips. In fact, I think this quiet temperament is precisely what makes a cat's signs of affection so precious. A good dog will happily wag their tail at any stranger. But there's something very special about building a relationship with a shy cat until the first time it falls asleep on your lap. 

Just to clarify again, I love dogs. But I think it's no coincidence that we use the term "puppy-love" to describe pure, yet perhaps idealistic affection. On the other hand, when I think of cats, I think of long-term, sacrificial commitment. Like real love. Like marriage

(Sorry, that was just the first analogy that came to mind.)

On a closing note, cats are just really cute and fun to draw. Look at Pusheen. That thing is a work of art. 


If you were a cat skeptic before reading this, I hope this post inspired you to give cats a chance. If you also love cats, I hope this post stirred some warm, happy feelings relating to your similar appreciation of felines. Though college has been fun, I still dream of the day I finally move out of the world of dormitories and into the wonderful realm of cat ownership. Until then, enjoy these pictures of me as a cat, and thank you for your understanding. 


Thursday, August 23, 2018

Snoozy Review - The Brothers Karamazov

Tackling a real doozy today! The Brothers Karamzov is perhaps the most acclaimed novel by everyone's favorite Russian, Fyodor Dostoevsky. Like most of his works, The Brothers K uses a complex array of characters and events to illuminate philosophical arguments about life, love, and the human psyche. This novel is particularly ambitious in its attempts to address universal moral questions, such as the nature of good and evil and the existence of a good God. Evidently, it's not exactly the ideal beach read--but I'll include some highlights here, and maybe you'll be inspired to pick this book up on your next rainy, existential day. Read on!


Review: The Brothers Karamazov 

Author and Year:
Fyodor Dostoevsky, 1880

Finished just about four months before his death, this book is truly Dostoevsky's magnum opus. 

Plot:
The Brothers Karamazov opens with the brief origin story of three brothers (four, if you count the strongly suggested illegitimate son). They've all unfortunately been born to Fyodor Karamazov, the dankest goon of a father on the block. Due to their father's shenanigans and other life circumstances, all the brothers grow up apart from each other and develop starkly different personalities. Fast forward 20 years and a situation concerning an inheritance, a monastery, and an apparently really attractive woman reunite all four for a plot that wildly expands until it hits the book's breaking point: a murder. 


By The Cover:
This book took me so long to read that I ended up switching between two different copies--the first was borrowed from the university library, so it was just a green leather bound. The one pictured here is the Norton Critical Edition--not the most fitting image, in my opinion, but I guess it captures the setting okay. 

First Line: 
"Alexey Fyodorovich Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, a landowner well known in our district in his own day (and still remembered among us) owing to his tragic and obscure death, which happened exactly thirteen years ago and which I shall describe in its proper place."

Quite a mouthful, but it does it gets the expositionary job done. Though the topics he deals with are some of the most difficult in literature, I think Dostoevsky himself actually writes with a pretty straightforward tone. In this opening line, you can also see an example of his common usage of an unnamed first-person narrator--what some say is a foreshadowing of the modernist movement.

Last Line: 
"'And eternally so, all our lives hand in hand! Hurrah for Karamazov!' Kolya cried once more ecstatically and once more all the boys joined in his exclamation."

*sniff*

A Quote:
"As he fell asleep he prayed for Mitya and Ivan. He began to understand Ivan's illness. 'The anguish of proud determination. A deep conscience!'..."

Aargh! 

Favorite Part:
Anything and everything to do with the troupe of young boys Alyosha assembles. The parts of the book about them are sweet, heartbreaking, and perfect intermissions after some more intense events (especially at the end). 



Least Favorite Part:
Maybe the entire 25%-50% portion of the book. LOL just kidding, but seriously, blindly reading through this for the first time destroyed me. It's one of those books that gets better as soon as you've read the whole thing and can process it beyond pure plot points. 

Final Comments:
I always want to add more classics to my list of books, so I'm really happy I got through this one. I actually finished the Brothers Karamazov last summer, at a point in my life where I was seeking wisdom and courage for a lot of things. On that note, finishing The Brothers Karamazov is one of the strongest memories I made that summer--not just because of the act of finishing the book itself, but because of the grand sense of peace, closure, and hope I felt when I closed the cover. A must-read for anyone who thinks about life to any degree, and or maybe just wants to read one book they can mull on a long time. It's quite an investment of time and mental energy, but if you dig Dostoevsky's style, it's absolutely worth the commitment. So for that reason, The Brothers K is the only book I've reviewed on the Snoozy Cat so far to get a rating of...

Rating: 5/5

Saturday, September 16, 2017

An Inch And A Half

A recent visit to the doctor's office revealed to me a startling truth: I am tall. Now, anyone who knows me may find this discovery incredibly superfluous and stupid. I should be able to tell I'm tall every time I look at myself in the mirror, or by simply interacting with my surroundings on a daily basis. But truly, discovering my height was startling to me, not so much because of its magnitude itself, but because of how far off it was from what I had perceived to be my height for the entirety of my post-pubescent life.

You see, since I was 14, I had been telling people that I was the nice, clean height of 5'8". Sometimes I would joke about it around my short friends who reported their own heights to the quarter of the inch, saying that mine could be off by an inch or two. Little did I know that I had jested myself. Indeed, on that fateful visit to the doctor's office, the doctor told me that, no, I was not 5'8"-- in fact, I was off by more than an inch. She told me I was actually 176.4 cm, or about 5'9" and a half. And in that moment, I fell into a extreme, overwhelming sense of existential despair. 




None of the friends that I anxiously texted with my discovery understood the commotion-- yes, I was tall. Yes, I had been an inch and a half off from my actual height. But what was the hulabaloo about? What was that extra inch and a half, especially since it didn't change the basic fact that I was tall? To that, I say: everything. 

5'8" is a really nice number. Even before I was conscious of the fact that I was tall, I was conscious of the fact that my favorite number was 8. Eight is even, whole, and aesthetically pleasing. "Five-eight" rolls off the tongue with linguistic flair. And it was just the right amount of tall to me-- enough to be taller than average, but not enough to make "tall" my defining physical characteristic.

5'9.5" has none of these traits. It rolls off the tongue like a glob of crunchy, expired peanut butter and is a bit too close to 5'10" for my liking. It makes tallness part of my identity I'm not sure I'm ready to accept. It also explains the reason why even when I followed the sizing guidelines for pant lengths, most of which said that "normal" lengths ran from 5'4" to 5'8", they were still too short for me. At least that mystery is solved.




By now, some of you may be thinking, "Oh come on, Kathy. Get over it. You should be grateful that you're tall." To which I would say: the grass is always greener on the other side. I would know, because with my height that makes me a colossus, I can peek over the fence rather easily.  And on that side, the wondrous, magical side of being a normal height, pants always fit (or can be cutely cuffed), people can see more than your seemingly decapitated head in group photos, and it's never assumed that you can play basketball. I am not good at basketball. I just want my ankles to be covered when I wear sneakers in the fall. I want to be more than a floating head. 



I have to say there is one silver-lining to being tall: people tend to assume you're more mature than you actually are. The applications of this benefit are wide and varied. For example, starting from a pretty young age, adults treated me with more respect, older kids let me hang out with them, and people generally assumed I knew what I was doing, even when I really didn't. Truly, being able to walk around alone in stores without employees asking if I was lost did a lot to boost my sense of independence (except when I really had to pee in Barnes and Noble).

Even now, for someone who intends to pursue a legal career, I imagine the extra height could come in handy. All I would need is a pair of 3 inch heels to effectively tower over 89.6% of the American male population, and hopefully have at least one societal advantage to win the judge's favor. I'm sure my clients would appreciate that. 



Of course, even this benefit is not without its setbacks. Looking back on one particular incident from my youth, I probably should have realized my absurd height at an earlier age. I was walking into my local CVS to buy stamps for some thank you notes-- it was late June, and I had just held a party for my 16th birthday. 

The lady at the counter greeted me warmly. She sold me a pack of stamps. Then, as I took the receipt and put my wallet away, she saw the stack of notes I had in my bag. She smiled, gave me a knowing look, and asked,

"Wedding invitations?"

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Rap God (and other things on the bucket list)

As I write this post, I am on the cusp of turning 20 years old. I'm not gonna lie, that big, official number instills in me some kind of urgency. After all, I had a rather docile teenagerdom-- I never rebelled against my parents, dyed my hair a crazy color, or even skipped school. For the most part of my life, I have been a gentle, deferential, law-abiding citizen (I say "most" because, indeed, I have jaywalked before, as well as downloaded several Owl City mp3s in 2010 without paying for them). As someone who now intends to pursue a career in the law, it brings me great shame to reveal such violations, but I trust that none of you will report me.



Anyway, besides those infractions, it would seem to most that I have lived an extremely quiet life, especially having gone through the years that are often considered the most tumultuous for a young person. However, fear not. I have a whole list of exciting, crazy, wild things I'm going to do in my 20s to make up for it. The list is quite extensive, but I thought to share a few of them here. After all, it's important to write your goals down so you don't forget them. 


1) Become a rap god

I've always strived to reach new heights in my musical career: for example, learning to play the drums, expanding from acoustic to electric guitar, or being able to sing like Beyonce. Whether or not I meet those endeavors with success is more variable (I still cannot do any of these things). However, one thing I refuse to compromise is my goal to one day be able to rap.


And I don't want to be a casual, basic rap vassal either. No, I want to be a rap god. I want to be so good at rapping that I can write it on my resume. I want to be able to rap the entirety of Chris Brown - Look At Me Now ft. Lil' Wayne, Busta Rhymes without a single stutter or pause. 

In fact, I've begun to work on that song already. Beyond getting a grasp of the basic rhythm of the song, my next goal is to figure out what exactly they're talking about.

2) Be able to eat a whole spoonful of wasabi with ease

The point of this bucket list item is to show the extent of my physical endurance. After all, I'm not very athletic. I don't look that threatening. Something like spice tolerance is one of the only means I have to demonstrate my power.
Fortunately, I've discovered since coming to college that spice tolerance is not something you're born with-- it's something you can train. This is both encouraging and worrisome. While it puts my tolerance into my own hands, it also puts it at constant risk of deteriorating, especially since I no longer have regular access to my mom's peppersome cooking. Thus, in order to combat this, I've begun adding spicy seasonings to my food whenever possible, as well as squirting sriracha into my noodle soups until the broth turns scarlet. I believe that with just a few more years of training, a simple spoonful of wasabi will be no problem.

3) Win a Pulitzer Prize for the Snoozy Cat

This one is rather obvious. I write this blog for no other purpose. I firmly believe that The Snoozy Cat is the pinnacle of nonfiction writing and will continue to assert as such until it is given the recognition it deserves.

And that's all for now, I think. After all, I don't want to share all of the secret plans I have on my agenda-- that would ruin the element of surprise. Indeed, the best part about getting something off your bucket list is that the moment you reveal your accomplishment is completely up to you (for example, I would love to reveal my rap god status at my wedding). Keeping that in mind, I'm going to stop the list here. But let's just say that if one day, you see me spitting bars during my Pulitzer acceptance speech about my wasabi-eating ability, you heard it here first. 





_________________________________________________________________________

(On a less whimsical note: I was reading a couple of old journals the other day where I had made smaller bucket lists. To my amazement, a lot of the goals I had set for myself years ago (which had seemed so lofty at the time) were already realized in my life! Seeing that gave me a sense of contentedness and peace. I thought it'd be nice to continue to feel that way.

So here are a few words written in the present that will come to represent the past, a picture of who I want to be that will hopefully become who I am. Thanks as always for reading, and to new opportunities and crossing things off the list for all of us!

In case anyone was wondering, here are some things that are actually on my bucket list right now: writing a book, winning a case for someone in court who deserves it, and becoming quadrilingual.
)

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

The Layman's Guide to Laziness

Everyone needs a 6am outfit.

When I say this, I'm referring to that outfit you assembled on a particularly sleepy high school morning, in which you had many regrets about a late night and your alarm sounded like a digital satanic incantation. For those kinds of days, I always had a go-to set of old t-shirts and hoodies that I knew I could throw together in a matter of seconds, yet still look passably human. This was my 6am outfit. I suppose they are quite universal, unless you're a morning person, in which case you are literally an alien to me. 


However, when I went to college, I made the conscious choice to leave most of my 6am wardrobe behind. I figured that I would a) never need to get up that early again, and b) dress more often in real clothes to trick myself into productivity. This was soon revealed to be a pipe dream, as I simply assembled an entire new collection of 6am clothes, and then proceeded to call them 9am clothes instead. The effort was there, though. And ultimately, nothing could match the dishevelment of the original collection. 

This, however, creates quite the conundrum when I come home for break. Usually, I come back home from school tired, weak, and in need of a cocoon. As I unpack my clothes with my limp, flailing arms, I open the god-forsaken second drawer of my old dresser to find all of the hobo clothes I intended to leave forever. In my fragile state, the allure is too much. 


Soon I am once again dressed in a class t-shirt, an XXL pullover, pajama pants, and tube socks, with no intention to change until my next shower. In fact, as I write this now, I am wearing the same exact clothes that I slept in, with my hair tossed ferociously against its natural part. This happens every break. I have learned to simply let the process run its course. 










You see, I'm a strong believer in the power of laziness. As long as it's done in moderation, a good period of doing absolutely nothing can be surprisingly useful for motivating oneself, out of the sheer guilt of being a sloth. Especially if you have recently exited a stressful environment, it's perfectly healthy to allow a period of respite. The key is, how? And what is the best method? 

Thankfully, I am an expert in this field. For those who would also like to benefit from this lifestyle, I'd be happy to disclose some of my trade secrets. However, as a quick warning, please do not attempt this transformation unless you are fairly certain that you will not need to make a public appearance for at least 3-4 days. The recovery period can be substantial, and most people will not be prepared to witness you in your fully formed state-- it is important to consider their safety. 

Now, the first step to complete laziness we've already covered: clothing. The 6am outfit is essential. Once that has been assembled, you're free to move on to more dynamic choices, such as the monochrome (dressing exclusively in clashing shades of the same color), the groufit (all grey), or the pattern-on-pattern-on-pattern (self-explanatory). I've included images of me modeling them below, in case there are the adventurous among you who would like the try them out:


Secondly, one must alter one's living environment. This will be due to your new priorities, such as comfort, warmth, and moving the least amount possible to get basic tasks done. After years of experience, I find that the simplest way to do this is to pile as many blankets as possible onto one's bed. You can also make efforts to ensure that all forms of entertainment are within arm's reach, as well as plan trips outside of one's room exclusively for food.

They often say that one's environment plays a huge role in how one develops. I would agree-- if you construct a beautiful den around yourself, it's hard to be anything but lazy. 


Finally, reformed vocabulary is the sign of a true, fully-formed human slug. This change indicates a deep internal transformation, an alteration of one's fundamental linguistic wiring. For example, when tired, instead of saying, "Gosh, I feel quite sleepy," you may instead say "Urgyyueh." Instead of "I'm decidedly famished," you may utter, "Frooogunnhhnnnhh." 

The efficiency of these statements is obvious. However, they usually require another of one's kind in order for communication to be smooth, so perhaps you may consider encouraging your friend to join you in your transformation. 

That is all from your friendly neighborhood gremlin. For those who see me at school, I ensure that in one month's time you would never guess at my current state. But until then, I shall be recuperating in bed, taking time for myself, and most certainly exerting the least amount of energy possible. Stay warm and safe, friends, and hoorhugrgnh!



Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Organized Chaos

I used to consider myself a messy person. Before I went to college, my room at home was quite the specimen: walk in at any given time and you would always find clothes leaking out of dresser drawers, piles of books on the floor, and empty mugs on every existing horizontal surface, alongside other wonderful things like month-old receipts, crumpled sticky notes, and a spoon I forgot to put in the sink for 3 weeks. At the height of its uncleanliness, I could probably bury myself in some corner of my room and no one would find me for weeks. 


But today, if someone were to ask me if I was a neat or messy person, I'm not sure how I would answer. Sometimes I love living like a cockroach, and other times, I need things to be painstakingly ordered and tidy. I think a good way to describe my ideal conditions would be "organized chaos."


The state of my room, for example. It may appear disgusting to most, but I find it pretty tolerable. In fact, I often don't even notice how dirty my room is until someone else does first. Usually, that person is my mom, who comes in to check if I'm still alive, takes one look at my desk, and screams in horror. The rare times I do begin to notice myself are when it's difficult to make it to my bed at night without stubbing my toe on three different things.


But if it reaches this point (and it always does eventually), I'll clean it. That's the strange thing: I enjoy the process of cleaning almost as much as I enjoy rotting in filth. I have rare domestic moments in which I find myself happily committing hours to tidying up messes I clearly made myself. It makes me feel like a dumpster diver, unearthing something nice from underneath a pile of trash. 

Another plus to cleaning is finding interesting things along the way, like old journals and failed quizzes, which gives me a review my life since the last time I cleaned my room (probably like a year and a half ago). And regardless of how dirty it was before, I can guarantee that the finished product afterwards is so clean, it makes a soap bar want to wash itself. 

As a side note, while many may have found that moving into a dorm in college unleashed their inner slob, I became considerably neater after I moved. I guess you can say I clean up pretty nicely-- literally. 

If I really think about it, my mixed messy/clean lifestyle extends into almost everything I do. When I was a kid, I dumped entire buckets of crayons on the floor for the sole purpose of neatly putting them back in the same bucket. Now in my classes, whenever I get a handout, I shove it unceremoniously into a single, bulging folder that contains notes for every other class I'm taking-- but eventually, I'll organize all of them at once. Perhaps some part of me just likes tidying up messy things-- the only catch is that they have to get messy first. 

I had a job shelving books in my school's library this summer. I quickly learned that summer is the worst season for school libraries-- even though there's no one around, all the books that were checked out during the year come flooding back in one tsunami-ous wave, making the next three months dedicated to nothing but reshelving thousands of volumes and fixing overcrowded shelves. 

As you may imagine by now, I had quite a joy ride. 




Initially, I thought that my job would be some daily quiet hours in which I could collect my thoughts and listen to music, with sorting books being only the secondary task at hand. But by the third week, I noticed that this may have been a wrong prediction. I obsessively cleaned up rows I wasn't assigned to. As I walked to the elevator for lunch breaks, I would purposefully take longer routes so that I could push wayward books back into their shelves. I even tidied up carts of books that would be shelved anyway, just to make them look nicer until then. 

I actually didn't think anything was unordinary about my activities until I noticed something about the shelving slips on my floor. To keep track of progress, the library has students fill out slips for each truck they complete. Eventually, I noticed that when I added a finished slip to the tray, the most recently completed slip on top of the pile was usually also mine. I decided to count them one day, to get to the bottom of the mystery. What I found was that out of the three student employees on my floor, I had filled out over 2/3 of the completed slips. I am not very good at math, but some part of me realized that this was probably not normal.
Even though the library is a huge space, I think I made some noticeable progress in its cleanliness this summer. Whenever I finished a cart, I felt very organized and productive. And at the end of the day, as I got ready to leave, I'd happily shove my water bottle, two books I checked out, a hairbrush, and a half-eaten sandwich into my black hole backpack and go home. 

Perhaps when we call people messy or organized, we're not doing their personalities justice. People don't fit into categories as easily as we think-- most of our habits, even the oldest ones, probably have exceptions if we think about them enough. Variation makes life interesting. At least, that's what I tell myself as I trip over the same pile of clothes in my room for the seventh time.