I am not a procrastinator. Till I have a massive potentially life-changing project to work on. Then I am a merciless cleaner. I bargain with God. If I clean the oven, will the short story just write itself? There's an outline on my desk, if you need to reference it. And the condiment shelves in the fridge call out to be neatened and pruned. All those pickles, five different types of salsa. Why are there two containers of Sriracha in there instead of just one? Can they be consolidated? How old is that Tapatio?

I am ruthlessly unsentimental with my closet in these moments. How did I accumulate so many vintage dresses? How many Marc Jacobs handbags does a person need? None. A person doesn't need any handbags. In some parts of the world, people don't use handbags. Shame on me for having so many. And my underwear drawer. Why do I insist on hanging on to holey pairs of grannie Victoria's Secret cotton underwear with period stains that I've had since college? Period underwear. Something that boys don't even know about till they live with you. Like urinal cake. Something we don't know about till we talk to boys. Or the pain of being kicked in the testicles. Is it really that bad? Do you really puke? Does the pain really rise up from your balls to your chest? I am fascinated. Really.

Yes. Period underwear. I cannot part with it. When I am PMSing and hanging around in my prescription negative 8.5 glasses and want to eat nothing but a carton of Carmela salted caramel ice cream I do it in my period underwear. And I revel in feeling and looking slobby. And resent being called "cute" in these moments. Cuteness suggests diminutive-ness and I am not small or petite in my slovenliness. I am hugely gross. I am blind and wearing old tattered underclothes. Every girl has a pair. Ask. It's our (literally) dirty little secret.

I think this story is going to be good, if I write it. But I shed like a cat and my bathroom floor is covered with long black hair. Gross. How did I end up living in such a filth-stye?

And why do I have canned black beans in my pantry? I don't even eat canned food. I should donate this to a soup kitchen.

And if I think beyond my home, there's my car, that needs to be washed.

And there is that old vintage map of Paris that I bought on the trip that needs to be taken to the framing guy in Chinatown who always tells me that I am his most beloved customer and offers me a discount. I am forever framing things that I don't have the wallspace to hang up. I should go visit him. I haven't seen him in some months.

I need to go to Trader Joe's and buy staples. I make a list:

Avocados
Lime
Ginger
Yogurt
Cilantro
Cherry Tomatoes
Kumquats
cucumbers
Walnut Gouda
Annie Chun's soup

I should be more disciplined about taking vitamins. And I've been really bad about consistently going to yoga class. Please, God. I'll leave my notes for the spec on my desk. If it is written by the time I get back, or if it drops out of the sky as I am walking down the street, I will go to yoga more regularly. I'll go to the Gurudwara on the top of Vermont for 40 days. I'll make burritos for the poor and hungry. I'll stop my consumptive patterns. I'll never buy another handbag again.

Look at this Jonathan Franzen guy. He is such a good writer. I should just give up now. I bet Jonathan Franzen doesn't make a trip to Trader Joe's every time he needs to write a short story. Or clean out his underwear drawer.

In my writing class, someone sincere once said that writing makes him aware of his mortality. The deeper he gets into writing his novel, the more aware he is of his own death, and the fear of death makes him want to finish it. I feel the opposite way. Please, God, just kill me now so I don't have to finish this damn thing.

Look! I just found a literary magazine I edited in college! Let's read it right now. And I have really been meaning to reread Grapes of Wrath even though I've never loved John Steinbeck in the cultish way that some people do.

Oh my God, my drawer full of mementos from the past! It needs sorting through and perhaps pruning, but I feel like rereading letters, and inspecting programs and ticket stubs and receipts and gifts. Let's listen to ALL the mix CDs I've ever been given. Quietly. Without the distraction of any other activity.

Look at this vintage typset drawer that I bought for $5 on Venice. I should pat myself on the back for accumulating junk at cheap prices. I meant to hang it up and use it as a curio. but it's been sitting here for some months now. Maybe even a year. I am waiting for Jolene to come to LA so she can style up my home. My mother is good at this activity too. They just have an eye for where things need to be hung up and placed. What goes next to what. I have an eye for things but perhaps not for curating them that well. I understand the placement of plants in a home though. And understand the principles of Feng Shui.

I evaluate my good and bad qualities. I am honest and not defensive when people tell me I am being an asshole. I concede when I am being an asshole. Or selfish or difficult.

But sometimes I am difficult and uncompromising.

I am neat and organized.

I procrastinate when things need to get done.

I judge people in my head.

I have a hard time keeping secrets.

But I am emotionally generous.

I am empathetic.

Sometimes I should just keep my mouth shut rather than tell people off but I don't have any self-restraint in these moments.

Like that guy in my yoga class who picked a fight with the homeless guy who walked in. This has really been bothering me.

Why would you pick a fight with a homeless guy? Before yoga class? And he was mean. You don't belong here. You can come when you have a home. This class is for people who are really interested in yoga, not drunkards.

It's like I can feel that sense of justice rising in my chest and if I don't do or say something I'll implode. Or go home and cry. And I am not letting this asshole make me cry.

That really wasn't necessary, you know. He has just as much a right to be here as you or me. And it's inappropriate for you to tell him to leave. It's a public space, Runyon Canyon and this is a public class. you ruined the atmosphere of the class before it started. And you don't speak for the rest of us. I don't have a problem with him being here. In fact, if you have a problem, maybe you should attend another class, (you asshole, I am thinking).

I ask myself why I am doing this. Am I really doing this in defense of the homeless guy or for the abstract notion of justice in my head? Or is it an outlet for my own outrage? Is this about me? Or about someone who was just wronged and humiliated in front of me? I don't know. It's a mixture of both. But I have to admit, I like bullying bullies. I like when douchey grown men over six feet tall quiver in discomfort and fear when a five foot tall girl confronts them. And they always do, in my experience. But I also can't stand seeing someone get picked on. And I feel an insane empathy for homeless people. This is, for some reason, my easiest trigger. I think I was homeless in a past life. Or a refugee. Why make someone's difficulties even harder?

But I want to make the bully's difficulties harder. I kind of want to make him cry. I am so angry in these moments. I can't let it go. Ever.

And then there is a camp of people behind me. Yeah, she's right. You shouldn't have done that.It's a yoga class, man. That wasn't cool. And then he is the victim. Scared of a mob who is judging him.

Why am I all about an eye for an eye. You ruin someone's day in front of me, I'll be sure to ruin yours. You fuck someone over, watch your back, because I'll make sure you can't come back to this yoga class without a little bit of shame in your eyes.

I am awful. I am such a scary bitch.

I go to this yoga class all the time. It is about peace and harmony. And I am picking a fight with a guy and justifying it to myself in the name of justice for the homeless.

I wish I were one of those people who could let it go. I wish I didn't talk back to cops security guards who are clearly abusing their authority. But if I hold my breath and count to ten I am just angrier. And no one else is even saying anything. Aren't they just as bothered by it? And if they aren't, shouldn't they be?

And am I defending this homeless man because there is nothing more that I can do for him beyond defending him, and this raises feelings of frustration and inadequacy in me? And do I feel any better after doing this? No. Yes. A little. I feel ambivalent.

This is exhausting. I am going to go write my story now.

Right after I watch the BBC World News report about Iran.