Is that an alien in my closet? Scary post.

AAACK!! Slam!! (pant, pant, pant)
That's the sound of me opening my closet then slamming the door shut before I'm sucked in and eaten. And the sound of my relief at living to tell the tale.

Evidence. EVIDENCE! Partial view of my closet.

Yeah, it's that bad.

It's a common problem, right? Right up there with gross grout and sweat between double-glazed windows the day after the warranty expires. Honestly, if you hear anyone say, "Oh, my closet? My clothes hang like they're in a high-end designer boutique, they don't touch each other, they're colour-coded and sorted by height and weight, and the hangers are padded," that's when it's time to say to the bartender, "Quick, get her another absinthe. This will go viral for sure! I hope my batteries last."

Voyaging into the closet of the unknown. A painting I did, acrylic on thick paper.

Already I have vacuum-sealed spacebags of clothes hibernating in my storage locker. I peek at the colony from time to time with my crime scene flashlight to make sure they're still breathing behind the padlocked door, resting in their plastic eggs in silent, cold darkness (heaped in tottering towers but the visual wrecks the in-space-nobody-can-hear-you-scream image). And we know how Alien ends, don't we? Those damned tentacles pull us in. And your space ship always breaks down so you can't get away. And then what? Mad bouts of sexless replication that can't be stopped?! There are so many things wrong with that.

Pods. PODS!! PODS!! Keep me away from the PODS! Me when I had bleached hair. And a pod in my living room.

Capsule wardrobe? An alien movie by any other name. All those pods. Clothes pods. Space pods. iPods. Sod the pods. Just thinking about it makes me want to put on a mega robo-suit like Ripley* and start whacking stuff around and screaming, "Get away from me, you B*tch Pods!" I'm preemptively exhausted. Let's not even get started on where I'd store a giant robo-suit. Eighties shoulder pads are challenge enough. *Heroine from movie Aliens.

YES!! MORE, I say with righteous voice, MORE EVIDENCE. Summer clothing now hibernating in pod abyss.

Sometimes I am giddy with the idea of throwing everything out, O-U-T, out! No more clutter, clenched sphincters, and squinty eyes. Instead, a confounding profound serenity. Like the scent of jeans fresh from the freezer. Clouds would be fluffier. Doritos would be healthier. I'd take up yoga, do downward dogs and sideways cows, and start saying all those namasty things. And drink green fluids with stringy bits. (Well, maybe not.) But I'd definitely cleanse - release the toxins: "Be free, Little Toxies!!" I'd feel great! And I'm sure I'd smell good. And I would be kind. And to celebrate, I'd change out of yoya pants. (sound of screeching brakes)

This is just a boring shot of what I wore today.

Then I think, I should dress like Lyn at Accidental Icon. Yeah! That's what I'll do. If I can't get a simple mind (okay, don't comment on that), at least I can get simple, clean clothing lines. Oooh, all that lovely architecture. Black. White. Purity. I'm sure I can find a few Issey Miyake pieces at the thrift shop on the $5 rack (first gross lie to myself). And I'll just add a little accent or two (second gross lie to myself), like maybe a colourful wrap, plaid platform shoes, psychedelic tights... (sound of screeching brakes)

Sigh.

Linda Blair in The Exorcist can spin her head around and spit green toxins; I can do this. It's uncanny.

Until I can figure this clothes thing out, I'll be wearing extra-long tattered sleeves; I'll create a trend: "Closet Sleeve," the sleeve that was wrested from that dark space, the diabolical place, like that horror movie with chewed bits from Chuckie* hiding in my closet. Well, no, there's no room even for little Chuckie. There no room even for skeletons, which is fine - I keep those in my dishwasher on the rinse cycle anyway.

Thinking about Chuckie gnawing my clothes in the dark, biting my hand, I'm freaking myself out. It's bad enough already. See what I do to make you happy? - happy at my misery?! Hahaha. Look, and now I'm laughing at myself. *In the Hollywood horror movie Child's Play, Chuckie is a heinous boy doll that murders people.

An illustration by O and me. A scary place.

Bartender, quick, another absinthe! Pffft. And chips. No, healthy Doritos. I'm coming down with a viral.

How has your week been? Are you keeping your closet demons at bay? Does your space ship break down at the most inconvenient times?

PS: Thank you for your stellar comments on my last post.

Another PS, Nov 12, 2016: I have linked this up to Not Dressed as Lamb, Saturday Share Linkup, in case you missed this the first time around.