I have, ahem, a LOT of shoes. A harem, really. Too many for one person to enjoy; a collection of beautiful things that are all mostly neglected and hidden from the world.

I thinned out the raggedy ones, and the pairs that I know I’m never going to wear (still haven’t consigned the last 5 designer stragglers), and I am still left with A LOT of shoes. And most of them never get worn. I haven’t performed an updated count post shed, but I’m pretty sure I could wear a different pair every day for at least 3 months without repeating. But instead I tend to reach for one of about 10 pairs. Well no more!

I’m taking a stand – or a sit down – whatever the situation demands – on behalf of neglected shoes! The members of my shoe harem will be equally attended to! They will all fulfill their purpose! I will wear a different pair every time I get dressed and not repeat until everyone has had some lovin’!

It seems I have found yet another way to procrastinate.

Alas.

About 3 or 4 times a year for maybe the last 15 years, I have a dream where my teeth start falling out of my mouth. The dream varies, sometimes I’m at a party, sometimes I’m at home brushing my teeth, whatever, at some point, either a tooth (or multiple teeth) feels loose, or just pops out of my mouth like a Chicklet. I’m usually pretty horrified, and usually will try to push the tooth back in my mouth. The whole thing is tense and awful and it’s about as close to a nightmare as I ever have.

I don’t know if the dream is actually about a fear of losing my teeth, as I don’t have a conscious fear of toothlessness, in fact, if I wasn’t such a lazy ass, I’d have already made an appointment to have a couple of them yanked. This isn’t something creepy, my wisdom teeth have been growing in, on and off for years now. They’ve pushed all my teeth forward to make room for themselves, and while no one has begun referring to me as ‘bucky,’ I do have to do something to remedy the problem. That means: getting my wisdom teeth out, and then getting braces or something like it. How many pairs of Louboutin heels are there to a full set of Invisalign?

Oh.

Really? That many? Crap.

At any given time I have about 5 creative projects actively in progress. The 5 are chosen from a list of about – well, the numbers are embarrassing, let’s just say a significantly larger and ever growing list. I’m pretty certain that I’ve become an idea machine for the primary purpose of rationalising my procrastination: I can’t work on that right now, I have this new project that needs attention. I’m getting better about this though. New ideas are almost always pushed to the end of the line now. It would be great if I could work on just 1 or 2 things at a time, but my brain refuses. 5 is too many, but any less than that and I won’t work on anything at all. 5 works because no matter how much I’m doing, I’m procrastinating on something. I need to procrastinate, I don’t feel complete unless I’m neglecting something.

I get an odd sense of satisfaction from finishing body products. Squeezing that very last drop out of a shampoo bottle, the last pouf of facial cleansing mousse, the vestiges of spot treatment in a wanded tube. I think it stems from being such a procrastinator: I rarely wind up finishing my creative projects, so I eke out feelings of accomplishment wherever I can. Shit, that’s pathetic. I didn’t used to be this way. I used to regularly do things to completion. That sounds like it cost an extra $40 at a massage parlour. $40 seems pretty cheap actually. I mean really that sort of thing should cost $50 minimum, but closer to $80 or a hundred. Though I suppose $100 might be a bit steep for something you could do at home on your own. I guess it depends on what type of place, what city, what the massage parlour attendant looks like, how big their boobs are, etc. I feel bad for real masseuses. They’ve gone to school, they have training and certificates and student debt, and I bet every time they tell someone what they do they’re met with waggling eyebrows.