As my brain has been thawing the last couple of days, my pulse regulating itself to a rhythm opposite that of "Flight of the Bumblebee"--as all these tiny, necessary undoings take place, I've been looking in my closets.
Okay. I know what you're thinking here. Given my usual sense of symbolic import while waxing and waning about life's deeper mysteries, you are thinking I am talking about something other than a closet. But, dear reader, I assure you I am actually talking about my literal closets (though they will probably be held under a symbolic lens at some point in this post...)
What I want to know is this: who has been coming into my house and throwing stuff in my closets? I mean, seriously, I would never create a physical hazard like the ones I am discovering here in my own home. The only person capable of this kind of chaotic, potentially deadly, anti-feng shui, tetris meets jenga nightmare would be my sister Julie. (Julie, you know it's true. Remember when we lived together in college, and the strange apartment we rented was designed so that I had to walk through your room to get to my room? Remember how I missed an entire semester because I couldn't find a way out of your room?)
It appears that anything I couldn't deal with over the last few months got thrown in a closet: 60 pounds of stuffed animals? No problem. Throw them in the closet. Limited edition VHS box set of The Terminator. Well, I might need that later. (Opens door, throws object into dark space of closet.) 75 bubble wrap envelopes from .01 +3.99 shipping amazon.com purchases--I hate to waste them. Shower curtain rod? Empty picture frames? Shrunken sweaters? Surely I can unravel those and make a scarf. (Pile lands on floor of closets, obscuring view of Terminator box set and rolled up poster of MADD race car.) Why are there rocks in there? I mean, why did I throw rocks in my closet?
I can only guess what the skeletons are saying about the kind of landlord I've become.