Overture

As I lay beached on my couch last night, unable to swim through the flotsam and jetsam of my apartment, a lightning bolt of understanding jolted me in the vicinity of my right forearm -- which immediately became numb and tingly. (Yeah, I was laying on my side; it fell asleep.)

If you're trying to teach the law of entropy to your 11th grade science class, I suggest you plan a field trip to my apartment. Seriously. The flotsam and jetsam (read: empty cigarette packs, books, plastic shopping bags, papers, tools, laundry arranged in various baskets according to degrees of cleanliness, CDs, DVDs, magazines, mail) has increased to a point in which no work can occur within the closed system that is my apartment.

That's when I realized that I am actually a mermaid, who has recreated her ocean floor existence above sea level in a midwestern city on the second floor of a 6 flat. Eeesh. This would be the lightning bolt I referred to in paragraph one. It seems that one upon a time I was a happy little be-gilled and beguiling sirena who washed ashore and met a pirate. Enamored by his gauzy shirt, bottle of rum and foul mouth, I agreed to exchange my tail and gills for a life of poor air and above-board existence -- after which, the pirate left me for a long, hot summer of romance with the first mate and a manatee. I naturally repressed this memory, and wandered around in post-traumatic stress disordered state. It wasn't until last night, looking around my trashy apartment and feeling quite at home, that everything came back to me with said lightning bolt.

I think I'm going to throw a party so that I'm forced to clean my place. I'll be making a rum and horchata punch. Details to follow.