I am moving soon.
Yesterday, I spent a good eight hours climbing up and down an attic ladder, hauling boxes delightfully decorated in mouse feces.
It made me realize two things:
1) I should work out more.
2) I have too much shit.
There were things I placed in that attic eight years ago that should have had a home in a beautiful ocean garbage patch.
Things like:
Why was I saving this? Was I planning to bring it as a date to my son’s future wedding?
Maybe.
But he had to go. He was a beautiful gift bestowed by two very good friends at my bachelorette party. They gave this to me after my adamant declaration that if a stripper appeared within a 100 feet of me, I would immediately set myself on fire.
They got me a historical reenactor instead. That is actually worse, but that is a story for another post.
There was a box of wigs (?), a relic from my Dolly Parton phase? Underneath the wigs was a dead mouse. I washed my hands for 15 minutes while I yelped and hopped up and down and did a few break dance moves.
There was this:
An heirloom for my future grandchildren per chance?
I had trouble figuring out what this was exactly. Hugo tried to help:
I wished it was a turd. It was actually a partially melted cat candle.
But it was actually topped by this:
I don’t know. I don’t know. It seems like something I would never buy or make, but did I buy or make it? That is a mystery.
The cellar is next. I hope my thighmaster® turns up.
Dearest Reader: Speaker7 is attempting to write a post every day in November so she doesn’t have to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). This is the fourteenth post. Tomorrow she turns forty. Cheesus cripes on a turd-like cat candle.
