Adding Insult to Injury

As a writer, I do not leave my apartment that often. Most of the information I gain of the outside world comes from my husband, though his stories are tainted. Note to self: never trust news from an optimist.

To be frank, most of my life is spent sitting at this desk only exercising my fingers and mind. I get up to pace away writer’s block, but that is all. In my old apartment, I did not have a desk leading me to move more. But this daily cycle has been repeating for a year now. It is hard to explain really. Well, perhaps not.

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I published my third novel today. Camden of course does not hope for it to be a success, he knows it will be. I always thought happy people to be wishy-washy, but I guess optimism leads to confidence. The question is whether his confidence is just.

I am staring out the window right now. Ignorant passersby do the things every unsupervised person does. The gum chewers spit on the sidewalk, the coffee drinkers dump the cold, and the angry make faces...and occasionally gestures. It is the first month of the year, so I know that soon the trees that line the streets will be gone, the “go-getters” who are decked out in tracksuits, sweatbands, and heart rate monitors will be replaced by angry kids with backpacks, textbooks, and lunchboxes who have to return to purgatory (Typo, sorry, I meant school.) and the trash cans full of wrapping paper and unwanted gifts will be emptied and unhappily dragged back to their spots away from the street.

My desk still had bits of excess wrapping paper, gift bows from gift boxes that contained gifts (Say that one five times fast, I dare you.) and tape all over it, a few new gifted knickknacks that would slowly but surely be moved to a junk drawer, trash can or donation bin, and holiday cards that also might just find their way to the trash bin. As for the rest of my office, the insisted upon holiday decorations line the walls and doorway, and new books were stacked on the floor as I did not yet have the time to reorganize the shelves. The only decorations I put up willingly were the little scarves and hats on my succulents that year-round filled empty spaces on shelves and cabinets. Like always, I had music playing and an empty hot chocolate cup sat next to my computer.

*

It is springtime now, and many drafts later I am on my way to writing a new book. The trees and flowers have started to bloom in the park across the street and the streets now have either flower petals or raindrops on alternating days. Boys and girls run around, gleeful knowing that soon they will get an entire week off. That week however will pass by faster than a single class on a normal day. Now with pleasant weather, the cooped-up dogs finally get to explore the sidewalks, albeit a restrained exploration, those with jobs to do make their way to work, and babies unwillingly wear ugly spring-themed outfits. Their parents of course wearing tank tops, floral printed attire, and far too many pastel colors.

A gifted bouquet of flowers sits next to the rest of my plants. The open window poorly acted as both my air conditioning and radio. The bits of paper and sticky notes that covered my desk blew around a bit, but they always found a place somewhere around my office. Like always, I had music playing and an empty hot chocolate cup sat next to my computer.

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There are many things that practically every human enjoys for no particular reason, including popping bubble wrap, the sound of a zipping zipper, and of course, crunching leaves. The last of which creates a back-handed segway to me talking about my office in the fall.

Now instead of babies and toddlers in clothes, the dogs are now wearing sweaters. Admittedly, it is more pleasant to look at. At least no one has tried to walk sweater-wearing cats today, though I imagine if they tried they would have to walk to the Emergency Room. Untimely holiday music fills the streets that are lined with scarves, boots, and turtlenecks, covering people just trying to keep with what is fashionable.

My poor succulents will soon have to be replaced and the heater will need to be booted up again. I resort to a playlist while writing to avoid the holiday cheer that is a few months too early. Mr. Optimist of course claims that there never is a wrong time for such joy. Note to self: do not leave big decisions to people who are always in a good mood. Like always, I had music playing and an empty hot chocolate cup sat next to my computer.

*

It is winter again, and even worse, it is New Year’s Eve. Shouting, fireworks, and drunks will soon fill my office and the street I spy upon. Street vendors with questionable goods stand on street corners and the depressed stumble their way around even in the daylight. Half-fallen decorations are on the wall next to my desk and my new plants have fake snow lining their pots.

I could spend this yearly travesty alone in my office, as I planned to do. I never understand why the last night of the year people do stupid things when the whole idea is to do better the next year. Regardless, I do not plan on changing myself much at all. Another book, sure, any life changes, certainly not. Instead, however, I think I will finally leave my self-made jail cell and spend the day with Camden, as I do every year. There is nothing quite like spending a holiday with someone who has holiday cheer every day. I leave my office after turning off my music and washing the empty hot chocolate cup that sat next to my computer.