“I spend far too much time sorting the debris of our lives, assessing fitness for Reuse, Re-gift, Recycle, Return to Sender, Rot, or the Last Resort: a trip to that big-pit-where-nothing-will-compost-in-my-lifetime. Everything else, from kindergarten-made dream catchers to useless knick-knacks—all the things that no one else would ever want—goes into my box of Saved-from-the-Landfill Treasures. Who knows? Maybe someday a random toddler will wander in here, and I’ll be all set to entertain.
All this nit-picking makes me feel like a baboon grooming her mate.
I need help. I’ve been in therapy enough times in my life to recognize the signs. Despair, obsession, refusal to empty the cat box.”
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