Dear Reality,

Listen, I know you'd like me to pay attention.  But it's not my fault.  Really. 

See, Vikki and J move into this place in nine short days.  And that room over there?  The one with all the stuff in it?  Yeah, it's too full of crap.  And if it was really, truly, hand-to-God crap, I could just throw it all in the trash and go about my merry way.  But it's not.  It's photo albums and envelopes with locks of baby hair and craft supplies (SO MANY) and paperwork and books and curtains still in their package and yarn and baskets full of little, complicated things and folders full of long forgotten scripts and office supplies and, of course, toys strewn randomly about.  All of this is covered with a fine layer of drywall dust, which makes it all the more delightful to sift through.

I realize it must be sorted and packed and put away but I'm out of places to put stuff. The shed is full.  Under the house is a mess of mud due to the rains.  The boats are even crammed full of stuff.  And closet space? DOESN'T EXIST UPSTAIRS.  Seriously, there are no closets up here, I've looked.  I even spent a good bit of time ignoring you and looking at the house plans to see if there could possibly be secret passages like in Webster.  I kinda think all houses should have secret passages.  This one does not.

So, I hear you, Realty.  You need me to focus.  Instead, I'm going to sit in the corner and eat my hair, rock a little and try not to cry.  I'll get back to you later; you know, after the problem has magically solved itself.

Thank you and have a lovely day,