Last night I was watching an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. I sat in front of my computer screen, headphones blocking out the real world and allowed myself to be sucked into the fantasy.

I winced when they wanted me to wince. I sighed when they wanted me to sigh. I laughed in all the right places.

And I cried, right on cue. I sat here in front of my computer screen in my red flannel pajama pants, red-eyed and sniffling, lost in the beauty of the on-screen moment. I felt that artistic side of me open up, and I embraced it. Tears rolled down my face as my emotions surged in time with the music in the background. By the time the episode ended, I felt vibrant. Alive. I felt like my soul was singing, pulsing with the underlying beauty of the world. Songs that fit my mood rolled through my mind, and I could hear the quiet echo of the lyrics bouncing about in my head, bolstering the beauty of the moment.

I stood up from my seat in front of the computer, wiping the back of my hand against my eyes to to clear the tears away.

I turned around, looking for the Bean, ready to share with him the beauty of the moment…

and viewed the destruction.

It took a moment for me to realize what it was.

The dog had broken into the bathroom trashcan again. You know— the bathroom trashcan. With THOSE products. Like the sociable creature that he is, he had pulled all the items in the living room to share with us. Wasn’t that sweet of him?

Anyways, I’m just here to let you know that nothing— and I mean NOTHING– can snap you out of a “there’s such beauty in the world!” moment and back to reality faster than cleaning up shredded, half-chewed used bathroom-trashcan-products. By the time I’d finished cleaning everything up, I was completely grounded, tear-free and logical. I think I’ve stumbled upon an actual cure for those overly-artistic the-world-is-love-and-beauty-and -harmony-and-all-is-connected-by-exotic-rainbows-and-Bob-Dylan-and-poems.

If any of you guys out there have one of those in your life, the kind you just want to grab by the shoulders and shake some sense into, send them on down to my house. I’ll release my neurotic cocker spaniel in the bathroom for ten minutes, and then they can come clean it up. When they’re done, I can guarantee they won’t be in the mood to compose any badly-written, overly angsty poetry.

Maybe I should market this idea.

Laugh all you want, I think I’m onto something here.