Quotes About Cluttered

My worst habit is probably that I'm extremely messy. I'm a big scatter-brain - I'm always losing my car keys, or worse, forgetting where I parked my car in the car park.

I think too many comic book covers are way too busy, crammed with far too much information, both visual and verbal, that just becomes a dull noise.

Not only is writing more important than ever, but visual literacy is vital. We don't teach enough design, art, visual things. We have to recognize what we're seeing. It matters if you send someone a cluttered design. It matters more than ever.

I like cluttered, old, dark-wood antiques. I like character.

This was more like it, a narrowed cluttered little shop stacked with books from floor to ceiling and four or five browsers taking their time- putting thumb marks on the new jackets. Nobody paid any attention to them.

This man dresses like an unmade bed.

Our house was cluttered with little charms, thoughtfully placed. There were all kinds of little things going on. Like, my mom made a lampshade out of a picture of our family, but if you look closely, there's a baby Jesus that she cut up and put just above all of us.

Many gardens are hijacked by their plants and end up looking like a room overstuffed with furniture.

I'm not clean or even vaguely pleasant to be around in a domestic situation.

He was a psychiatrist, as well as a warm, whimsical, and witty man who had a mind like a cluttered attic.

my digs look as if they've been dug

As technology has improved, our digital lives have only grown more tangled and cluttered.

morning light through his windshield was pale and tired; the city had the desultory, cluttered look of a living room after a drunken party; Martin

It was definitely something beginning with "C." Crappy, cloudy, and cluttered? Cheap, cheery, and crud? Carmen frowned. "Clean! Clear! Curated!" said Mrs. Marsh, after waiting on a pause.

I'm horrible to live with. I don't clean. My clothes end up wherever I take them off. I forget to flush the toilet.

I usually work in a room which is totally cluttered with my mess, and there's stuff everywhere, and it's kind of chaotic because I am a very messy person. I could totally write in a pristine environment, but it would mean I would have to be at someone else's house.

I'm too disorganized.

My life is cluttered with the most wonderful memorabilia. And wonderful creative experiences.

I write in an old-school paneled study in the middle of a large farmhouse in rural Iowa. I have pine floors, a big cherry desk, and a small window. The room is cluttered with papers and books and gifts from friends.

I'm still a bit of a reading glutton, I think, because I browse, read a bit of the back copy, flip through the book, read a bit of the text, and if it still seems fascinating, I read it. That's why my bedside table is so cluttered: I want to imbibe it all.

Messy, Grubby, Sloppy, and Robert.

No institution- behind the façade, behind the pompous name and the numerous employees- truly functioned. No decipherable order, only an unruly and uncontrollable crowd on streets cluttered with sellers of every possible type of merchandise, people speaking at the top of their lungs, urchins, beggars.

Her apartment seemed fussier than ever, as if the doilies and tassels had taken to breeding in their unguarded moments.

It was a small room, and it was as crowded with coffee- and end-tables, chairs and hassocks and bookcases, as a second-hand furniture store. The horizontal surfaces were littered with gewgaws, shells and framed photographs, vases and pincushions and doilies. If the lady had come down in the world, she'd brought a lot down with her. My sensation of stepping into the past was getting too strong for comfort. The half-armed chair closed on me like a hand.