Clutter is the leading cause of distraction-which can lead to death, because when one fixates on random junk instead of walking, it’s easy to trip down the stairs and die–among the housebound. And perhaps the bored writer, too. I don’t know why this happened but the second I realized the sheer amount of crap in the apartment, I started attacking, pushing those tchotchkes towards the dumpster with no remorse. And I kept attacking, weeknight after weeknight. The blitz rolled into the weekend, and now Monday.
Feel like I’ve been at this for 10 days straight now, and a lot more extrication is still needed.
I am big believer in the notion of the more stuff you own, the more it owns you. Boy, do these articles of dis-use have my number.
Query: how exactly did I come to own a Butt Master?
How you ask? Too many late nights watching those infomercials? Loose change in your pocket dying to go for a spin around the mall? Perhaps you were transfixed for a moment by a vision of what your newly tight buns would do to the opposite sex?
My question is – when did a Butt Master become a tchotchke?
tchotch·ke Pronunciation Key – Show Spelled Pronunciation[chahch-kuh] Pronunciation Key – Show IPA Pronunciation
–noun Slang. an inexpensive souvenir, trinket, or ornament.
Souvenir? Nooo. Trinket? Hardly? Ornament? well, that would be one heck of a tree!
If I plant that tree in the dumpster will it grow into Suzanne Somers?
Actually the Butt Master is a legacy gift I planned to re-gift and in the meantime sentenced to the closet. It might be a great product, but the manual disappeared and I’m too scared to straddle it without a thorough review of the documentation.