I am moving soon.

Yesterday, I spent a good eight hours climbing up and down an attic ladder, hauling boxes delightfully decorated in mouse feces.

It made me realize two things:

1) I should work out more.

2) I have too much shit.

There were things I placed in that attic eight years ago that should have had a home in a beautiful ocean garbage patch.

Things like:

Why was I saving this? Was I planning to bring it as a date to my son’s future wedding?


But he had to go. He was a beautiful gift bestowed by two very good friends at my bachelorette party. They gave this to me after my adamant declaration that if a stripper appeared within a 100 feet of me, I would immediately set myself on fire.

They got me a historical reenactor instead. That is actually worse, but that is a story for another post.

There was a box of wigs (?), a relic from my Dolly Parton phase? Underneath the wigs was a dead mouse. I washed my hands for 15 minutes while I yelped and hopped up and down and did a few break dance moves.

There was this:

An heirloom for my future grandchildren per chance?

I had trouble figuring out what this was exactly. Hugo tried to help:

I wished it was a turd. It was actually a partially melted cat candle.

But it was actually topped by this:

I don’t know. I don’t know. It seems like something I would never buy or make, but did I buy or make it? That is a mystery.

The cellar is next. I hope my thighmaster® turns up.

Dearest Reader: Speaker7 is attempting to write a post every day in November so she doesn’t have to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). This is the fourteenth post. Tomorrow she turns forty. Cheesus cripes on a turd-like cat candle.