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And they shall know you by your crap
By briantologist | July 28, 2003
Here’s something I hadn’t counted on when we bought our house. You know how, in your old room at your parents’ house, there are boxes of your old crap stowed away in a closet, boxes you’ve always told yourself you’ll pick up “someday, when I’ve got somewhere to put them”? Turns out your parents remember vividly these vague statements you make, and are waiting outside the title company for you to sign the papers so they can dump your fucking crap back on you. At least mine were.
Though they waited until Saturday, a few months after we moved in, to do it. I mean, I know technically I shouldn’t have actually said (once or twice) that I’d get the crap out of there, as it probably made it seem to them that I might actually do it one day. But come on — we’re coming up on 28 years of empty promises now, and you’d think at least your parents would’ve learned to spot the warning signs by now.
Anyway, I’ve made surprisingly good progress toward going through all 16 freakin’ boxes of crap and deciding what’s worth keeping (very little) and what’s dump-bound (very lots). In the process, I’ve discovered some completely badass objects, a few of which I won’t disclose here because I’ll be giving them as XXX-Mas or birthday presents to the six people who read this thing. I’ve also gained an insight or two into my own young character, mainly through the sheaves and sheaves of drawings I made during church to keep myself from swooning from boredom.
A few observations, then, both on notable objects and on the kind of kid I was:
• Chamois-thin Ocean Pacific T-shirts and my old boy scout shirt look way hotter on Darleece than they did on me.
• I was perhaps the worst art student in the entire history of art students (“Brian, your last three drawings of the Predator were pretty expressive, but have you thought about branching out?”).
• According to one drawing, the most obvious way to improve the space shuttle was to give it missiles. Plenty of missiles.
• My dear sister’s hatred for her grade-school archnemesis burned brighter and hotter than a thousand suns.
• Judging by the collective strength of my sister’s and my stuffed animal collections, combined with the remarkable fidelity we showed to them, our parents probably should’ve just broken down and got us the goddamn dog we kept asking for for fifteen years, goddammit.
• Sorry. Little bitter about that dog thing.
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