if I wrote a novel, this would be page 1

            I looked at the mess crowding my dresser top, trying to remember in which crevice of clutter I had last seen my notebook. The dresser looked like every other flat space in my home: a mish-mash of drawings, to-do lists, debt collection notices, seashells, ipod chargers, bracelets made from sixteenth-century Spanish shoe buckles, a Soviet-era military cap…you name any item, it was probably there. I once saw an Andre Villers photograph of Pablo Picasso dressed as Popeye- well, dressed like Popeye from the neck up, anyway, as the rest of him was only wearing boxer shorts. He stood in front of an armchair, heaped with piles of clothing, and a disorganized dresser top much like my own. When I saw this photo, I felt a pulse of small pride in my heart; Pablo Picasso and I obviously shared a certain bohemian proclivity for chaos. Nevertheless, when guests are over, I always seal my bedroom door tightly closed, lest anyone should see what a disastrous pig I really am.

            Finally spying the notebook, I gingerly pulled it from its hiding spot, being careful not to knock the rest of the area’s mountainous contents to the floor. I was running late to the gallery, and besides, I certainly didn’t want to cause a loud crash when he was lying there in bed, still seething with silent rage and contempt for my very existence. I deserved his anger: I had been snippy and short with him one too many times yesterday morning. I hummed the tune of that Modern Lovers song, breathing the words as a sort of anthem to myself, “Pablo Picasso never got called an asshole…Not like YOU!” as I walked out of the room. I was an asshole, and I knew it.

           

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