Every couple of hours I go look at the bathroom and admire how clean it is. It literally sparkles. I'll just do it myself I said when the cleaning lady didn't answer the phone. That was over a year ago and I've been putting it off a bit, like for over a year. I'd done a little sweeping every now and then, but nothing like the task I accomplished this morning on my hands and knees with vinegar and Bon Ami and two old socks that are now in the trash.
I wonder if James Joyce cleaned his bathroom in Dublin, or Hemingway in Key West, or Hunter Thompson in Aspen. I imagine not, but you never know. Maybe that's where they got their inspiration: on their knees bent over the toilet. But they were probably puking their guts out from a drunk the night before instead of scrubbing with Bon Ami and an old sock. Much more literary to be puking your guts out, isn't it?
You just never know what it takes to inspire a writer.
I quit puking my guts out on my knees in front of the toilet a few years ago, and I can't say I really miss it.
Oh, I think I better go back there and see if the bathroom's still clean. I know I didn't bother for a year, but you never know, it's been a couple of hours now...I'm not obsessing.
