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Fear of boxes

After a day of selling fish, I came home and Judith spoke the awful truth when I walked in the door: My room isn't ready. It isn't anywhere near ready. She had wanted to clean it out her way, and she tried, but it ain't happening.

It's no surprise, and it's not like I didn't see this coming. She tried her best, I've accepted her gracious surrender, and now we'll do it my way, which involves boxes.

Judith hates boxes. It's one of her phobias, and there's a word for it: cogombophobia. Since boxes frighten her, she wanted to clean out the room without using any, just sorting through every individual piece of the monstrous mess.

It can't be done, though. The deadline has passed, and now I'm in charge of cleaning out my future-room, so I told her that my plan involved buying 40 big boxes at U-Haul. She shook her head 'yes' and walked away, and the work of clearing that room is now up to me, so everything is going into the dreaded boxes.

It's somewhat uncomfortable doing this, and not just because of her cogombophobia. The mess is all personal stuff that belongs to Judith: her manuscripts (she writes poetry and science fiction), her family photos and mementos, her old clothes, etc. Boxes or no boxes, I'd hate having someone else going through all my stuff, so I asked Judith if she wanted to be my coach — pull up a chair and give me guidance about which things to put into which boxes — but she declined, and went to sleep instead. I think she's embarrassed, or just can't bear to watch. Can't stand to see all the boxes. Or maybe she was just sleepy.

I'm not sorting anything in any way, just scooping her stuff into boxes — eleven so far — and carrying the boxes into the library, the room in the house with the most unclaimed floor space

Good luck ever finding anything in those boxes; I'm not labeling them, because every box contains everything.

And good luck getting to the bookshelves by the time I'm done. Jake & Judith's library will be permanently closed, I expect.

So tonight I worked on my future-room for a few hours, and it is looking… slightly better? The drifts are still very tall, and Sarah-Katherine will be here in six short days. Fingers crossed, but I'm writing this while caked with sweat, and I'm exhausted. It's time for a shower, and then it's time for bed.

From Pathetic Life #14
Friday, July 7, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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