kerouac says

sometimes i think: no matter how much he thinks he got the better deal, really it was me. it was i. i who lucked out. because there is something about the monkey that is just so honestly good that my own heart--occasionally tempted to cook the books, to take friday afternoon off, to steal post-its and not make another pot of coffee after taking the last cup--knows itself as something of a fraud whenever he wakes up smiling, gives me the bigger cookie half, makes me a cocktail as if i deserved it.

this isn't self-deprecation; i'm good at a lot of stuff. this is just to say that really it's me. it is i. i lucked out.