Rite of Passage

Surely I must be undergoing some sort of rite of passage this morning, some sacred ordeal, which will decide whether or not I am worthy of finishing the third round of revisions on my novel.

That is the only way I can explain my morning so far. I awoke at 6 AM. I did the dishes. I turned on the computer and made toast. I was about to begin work when an army of lawn care specialists arrived at the house to my left. Their work required extensive machinery with sharp, little teeth that rattled the windows of my rundown Victorian two family apartment building.

I read Palimpsest. I waited.

The army dispersed, their battlefield trimmed and fertilized to perfection. I prepared to begin writing for the second time.

When I walked into the study I saw a yellow monster crouched outside my window, on my other neighbor's driveway. As if it had been merely awaiting my arrival, it bent its toothy head and began gnawing and wheezing and pulling at the asphalt. It's still chewing its way down the driveway, occasionally banging its head against the hard, black mass in order to break it into more delicate pieces for it to savor.

I have until 2 PM today all to myself and then my husband will come back from his appointment. So now I must somehow ignore the thrashing, crashing, digestive noises about a foot from my open window.

Surely this is some sort of rite of passage.