I just tripped over a measuring cup on the living room. There are baby pajamas hanging from the "office" chair. An Italian cookbook is perched precariously on an arm of my couch. There is a pink strip of something or other stuck to the kitchen floor. There are Cheerios, half-eaten granola bars, Christmas stockings, blank CDs, English 1A papers, all located in inappropriate places throughout my house. As I was driving home ten minutes ago from the hell that is Target, the following line of reasoning popped into my head: I will go home, feed Ben, put him down for a nap, put a load of laundry to wash, mop the kitchen floor, dust the house, and generally restore order. I will wrap my grandmother's present to ship off to Ohio on Monday.
But yesterday I made an early resolution to take myself more seriously as a writer. Yesterday was the end of the semester, and I was driving home to the sounds of Arcade Fire, and I began to feel inspired, and I had just read an essay of mine and thought that I wasn't so bad after all.
So fuck the house. And fuck wrapping presents. I'm sitting down to write this. And then I'm going to open a blank page in Microsoft Word and begin to take myself seriously again. There are people who suck who think they are amazing. I, on the other hand, am better than I give myself credit for. And, as an added bonus, I'm humble as hell.