January 3rd

Posted: January 3, 2013 in Uncategorized

Dear journal,

Sorting through Mother’s junk might have been more ambitious than I originally thought. This might take a couple of years, especially at the rate I’m going. Yesterday, I went through one stack of “things” – just one before I couldn’t handle it any more. I found several pieces of old cutlery in there, along with a ball of rubber bands I had never seen before, and several metal objects I am sure serve specific purposes, but I couldn’t figure them out.

Needless to say, most of that pile was tossed with my regular garbage. I kind of liked the rubber band ball, though, and kept that. The knives, forks and spoons where too covered in crud to even bother cleaning.

I haven’t really figured out my plan of attack yet. Should I do this room by room, or do one pile in each room at a time? I suppose I’ll see progress more quickly if I get each room cleared before moving on, but spending hours, days, weeks or months in mostly one room sounds a little depressing, despite my adventurous treasure hunt.

Perhaps it will be better to just play it by ear. I’ll just have to make sure I keep at it. You’ll remind me, right, journal?

Other than dragging a large garbage bin to the curb, I haven’t done much since last I wrote. I made myself a small dinner after working up an appetite cleaning, but ended up eating it mostly with my hands, as flashbacks of Mother’s junk cutlery kept jabbing me in the skull and turning my stomach. I had to wait a while for the rice to cool before I was able to scoop it from the bowl to my mouth, and eventually just lifted the bowl and ate directly from it. I then cleaned every bit of silverware in my drawer, just to get over the image. I could always drink Cup-A-Soup as my meals, but would still be grossed out by using a spoon to stir it if I hadn’t made sure everything was definitely not gross.

That makes me sound compulsive, but I don’t like gross things touching my food. How does? I must have scrubbed the kitchen floor every day for months after the recovery crew took my Mother’s body. I refused to take back the butcher’s knife I had driven through the skull to make sure she didn’t return and make me like her. I would have never been able to use it again, anyway. Even if I cleaned it a million times, I would still imagine tiny bits of brain mixed in with all my food. I ate all of my meals outside the house, or at least outside the kitchen, until I was satisfied that even trace of blood was long gone. When the guy who runs the diner started greeting me by name, I realized I’d been spending too much time there.

He still calls me by name, although I rarely call him Steve. He lets me keep to myself, and he doesn’t mind if I spend a long time drinking my tea and reading. Or, in this case, writing. The prices are pretty fair here, and the food doesn’t kick me in the gut like at those fast food places I keep seeing other people frequent. I like that my food comes on a plate instead of in a wrapper, and when I occasionally order fries, I don’t have to drown their flavour in ketchup to make them edible.

Anyway, my dinner is just coming through the order window. Talk to you tomorrow.



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