Right now I’m thinking about:
a crow in a tree
vacuum cleaner belts
I love lists. I make lots of lists. I make lists of things to do, of movies I want to see, of people I hope come to my funeral. I make lists of long-term plans, and things-to-do-today. I make lists of things that make me happy, and things that annoy me. I make lists of things I plan to blog about one day. I make lists of the top ten things that would make my life better, and of cheese-induced dreams I have had.
There is nothing more satisfying than crossing the first item off your to-do list, unless it’s crossing off the last item.
I like coming across old lists, and wondering what the common thread was. My lists never have titles. They don’t hang around. They get shoved in books, crumpled into pockets, recycled, left in shopping carts. I like finding other people’s lists, too. Sometimes I can’t read my own writing, and I wonder what I meant by “snorket”.
Some of my lists are secret. I don’t write them down, or if I do, I get rid of them when I’m done. List of people who piss me off. List of things I dislike about myself. List of top ten rotten things I’ve done in my life. List of weird sex stuff.
The act of writing them out and destroying them is cathartic for me. When I was a student, I learned best by writing things out. It solidifies things for me, imprints them into my brain.
When people do the unspeakable and/or unforgivable to me, I threaten them with the worst punishment I know – crossing them off my Christmas card list. Before you worry because I haven’t sent you a card, keep in mind that I haven’t actually sent cards for years. I just have an imaginary Christmas card list, and if you’re naughty, you’re crossed right off. Sometimes I let people back on, though.