i can't remember when it started, but one year, i stopped being a rat pack. i stopped wanting to keep every movie stub, every receipt, every certificate that reinforced what a special child i was (i needed a lot of reinforcing). few things escaped my sudden cold shoulder. only letters from friends overseas or across the classroom, diary entries, little novellas i had written, could stay. if you had soul, you stayed. that was my rule.
it wasn't too soon until i developed a gnawing guilt for the things collecting dust around my parents' home, waiting to be thrown out like expired milk. old programming books, a massage chair, the tv in the room noone ever goes into. every trip home resulted in a plea to the parents to let me organize a yard sale because i couldn't bear this cluttered existence. i felt so heavy, like i was stuck at the bottom of an angry sea wave and couldn't swim my way out because plastic toys were flinging themselves at me.
you don't have that dream, too ?
around about the same time, i nurtured a growing appreciation for using products to their end, and disposing of them promptly. there was no better satisfaction for me than to get that very last minty squeeze out of the toothpaste tube. i was brilliant at rolling them into wheels. in anticipation of being able to throw it out seconds later, and knowing that it had done its job. that we had served our purposes, that we were suddenly free of each other, and that we could now move on to the next good-looking tube on tom thumb's shelves.
i've never written so much about toothpaste in my life.
but i feel lighter. i think i'll keep at it.
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