Sometimes a sense of purpose greets you in the morning when the goddamn sun shines through the window, and you’ve got an empty apartment and a couch ready and plump. You do the dishes. You water the flowers. But white always looks better tossed, so you skip over making the bed because really, it’s a matter of aesthetics. You know that no one might ever notice these details—hell, maybe you will be the only one. But then you remember that dismal morning, sky hanging low, clouds stacked like sheets, when your mother told you that baby, you’ve got to choose you. And so you make this place your home, you shift the coffee table just right, iTunes like perfect static, and you choose the indelible you. It’s not even self-awareness—just the right kind of selfish love that reconciles this gut euphoria and a noisome mind.
