I’m writing today to honor my view out the window of the emerald monster green dumpster, the coiled garden hose ready to strike, the shovel stabbed at an angle into the frozen earth. I’m writing even though I exhausted the possibility of becoming a teenage prodigy 100 or 30 years ago. I write to resist the compulsion to erase, scratch through, burn or bury every word. I write as the alchemy with which I turn my most tangled snarls into specimens of interest to examine from more than just the one angle. I write as a grown-up version of passing notes to friends and strangers. I write with the vision of a queen transformed into a bar wench dancing on the table, her skirt wrapped around her head. I write because the cost of not writing is more than I can afford to pay. I write because it’s free. I write as mental hygiene. I write because the page is the vacation home for my brain. I write because I have an addictive personality and it’s better than getting drunk or high or STDs. I write because it pairs well with coffee. I write because I can’t kiss the feet of each remarkable moment but I can write them down and share them with you.