I wish I was kidding when I tell you that I’ve owned 7 wood picture frames for a long time. Seven total, in various shapes and sizes. They were bought from a Salvation Army in Philadelphia. Back when I lived in Philadelphia. Six years ago. They have moved with me through five apartments. Yes, I know. Five apartments in six years is gross.

Now I live in New York. I have silver zebra-striped curtains. And one of those cool vintage dressers. And a swirly iron headboard for my bed that I got from some weirdo on Craigslist. IT’S ALL MY DOING and I didn’t have to compromise with anyone when I decided to paint two walls turquoise and two walls mocha. Nothing matches and I like it like that.

But I’ve lived here a year and change and still own those fucking picture frames. Frames that have never known a wall in my time as their owner.

Two months ago, I bought sandpaper and placed it on top of the uneven pile making its home in my unusable fireplace. I said I was going to do it while on Christmas vacation.

When I woke up this “morning” (1 p.m., five days into my vacation), I said to myself, “Today’s the day. I’m going to do something with these picture frames.” Not out loud. I said it in my brain. Then I read The Magicians and fucked around on the Internet. As I write this, the time is now 4:42 p.m.

Home improvement? Self improvement? Heaven? Hell? Who cares? I do. I guess? Buuuut first I’m gonna go to the gym and buy something with glitter on it for New Year’s Eve. Christ, what am I so afraid of?! Not ghosts.

Finishing tasks, most likely. And ghosts. AND COMMITMENT!