Piles of Work

There are piles in my bedroom.
Piles of laundry
Piles of paper
piles of things on the dresser I don't want my dog to eat--like my sheepskin slippers that he used to try to snack on when he was a puppy, or a box of crayons.

I need to get going on picking them up and putting them where they all belong. But I'm not very motivated to do so.

I'm at that embarrassing and trivially miserable intersection between sloth, depression, and chronic disorganization, with an overlay of election anxiety.

Nothing for it but to put a good book on disc on and start tidying up...