My B-side

"...and you're tearin' up the photo's cause you want to forget."

I actually wrote this quite awhile ago, but there is a present-day follow up included in the end... So I have this shoebox and it’s filled with all the things I’d like to forget. My question is this: What does one do with such a box. It doesn’t belong in Utahopia, definitely not. However, if I were to ship it back to from whence it came I would have to waste five dollars of my precious college savings on an object that I despise. Another alternative: Burn the sucker. Torch it and watch it go. The flaw here is the law of conservation; although this dreadful piece of Matter (haha did anyone else get that?) would be burnt to stubble it would still exist and take up precious Utahopia space. Also this would cause some effort on my part and pocket (the price of matches is steep these days), not to the mention risk of violating a city ordinance or two. So my final option is to throw the thing on the top shelf in the back of my closet. Very little effort, minimal cost. It IS existing as a flawed object in a perfect place, but a dark, dusty corner of perfection is almost as demeaning as a sunny spot of landfill. There is only one problem with this arrangement (which happens to be the current position of the shoebox). Each and every time my friends and I decide to go tunnel singing in our perfect bubble I run to grab my D.T. issued blanket (think homeless-style) which just so happens to cohabitate with the awful shoebox on the cluttered top shelf of my closet. And every time I hurriedly grab the blanket (as not to be late for my very important date) my hand grazes that brown and gray shoebox. And I remember all the things I want to forget (what can I say; I’m an elephant… when prompted). I stop what I’m doing, sit on my bed and hate the entire male gender. And I contemplate a bonfire or perhaps packaging paper complete with stamps and bubble wrap (wait…no bubble wrap. He’s sooo not worth it) but I only leave with a slightly less than perfect feeling in a perfect place. (And I know that the fact that I took time to write this shows effort, but if the effort is to make you feel bad for making me feel bad then it’s justifiable. P.S. I hate you.) The follow up: Since... my roommate and I dedicated an eve to the destroying of our shoe boxes (highly liberating). Pieces of glass are embedded in the DT grass five stories down; remnants of the snow globe that "committed suicide." All the scented letters and photographs from years past have moved on to bigger and better things...the dumpster, serving their new purpose as confetti. The book of poems was thrown into the D.I. box...might as well give the less fortunate a chance at French Love. The necklace stayed behind...all that’s left. I threw it in the D.I. box as well but they didn't accept it (I wouldn’t either if I were them). So it remains there...but I've never stopped to notice.

posted by Melissa at 03:33