Am I a Don Henley Song?
A few nights ago I was greeted upon my return home from an enchilada run by a bunch of my own underwear strewn around my stoop. It seems as though someone in my new neighborhood is fond of picking through whatever I put out in the trash, though I will admit this has recently included some above average garbage. Like big Chinese fish windsocks. Those were cool, but I can’t reach my ceiling to put them up and I owned about fifteen and I just didn’t want them in my room anymore.
The thing, though, about garbage is that it’s not just what someone doesn’t want. It’s also things no one should want. Like my biannual underwear cull. Rejected by me and then by the phantom garbage picker and then by my neighborhood as a whole, my hole-y or de-elasticized or stretched out or too big or just plain ugly drawers were spread out like a dirty welcome mat near my front door.
I’ve been unpacking for the better part of a week now, an effort derailed by a few sick days and a few fantastically stupid nights. I mean stupid in the sense that they were impulsive, but they were also really fun, or really epic; I'm fairly sure the world at large owes me a couple of high-fives. But see? This is my problem. I have this tendency to tell every stupid story I get myself into to everyone I know, because they are funny, but I do this without regard to my privacy, the privacy of those involved in said stories, and the potentially delicate sensibilities of strangers in earshot who probably don't want to hear about my life in grisly, CSI-caliber detail. I usually stop short of putting them on the internet, but my impulse to do just that is growing stronger by the day.
And then your neighbors are gawking at your dirty laundry laying metaphorically all over the sidewalk. That's just bad writing, cosmos.