Look at that chest of drawers. It's mocking me.
It's saying, no, I will not keep my drawers on track. Are you nuts? Every single one of them will go crooked until you can't budge them at all -- to open or close. And yes, it makes me laugh at you. Sucka!
I've hated few things like I hate this chest of drawers. I want to light it on fire every time I see it. I want to take it out back like the guys in "Office Space" took care of that fax machine.
I'm 26 years old and my house is tribute to second hand furniture. Few things we own are originals, much of it got damaged in some way on our move to and from San Diego, and almost everything else is discount. We had the bright idea to save this chest of drawers from the dregs of Jeff's parent's basement, but now I know why it was down there. It is the devil.
Jeff and I are starting the very early process of looking into home buying. We're not quite sure how the five double-yous will work, but it's on the horizon. I'm looking at buying a home as the single greatest fresh start we can have. It will most likely be in a different place. And I want to chuck all our furniture in one large death to disco blaze.
Jeff is more prudent. "The couches can go in the basement!" The basement. Where good furniture goes to die. What's the point? The walls are closing in and we're a few more crappy pieces of furniture, a few more framed newspaper fronts, 20 records (records!) and about four more books away from being on an episode of Hoarders.
A sample of what we're holding onto: A few months ago I went through all the stuff an ex-boyfriend gave me. Some people have no problem chucking that stuff out, and I wasn't keeping it for sentimental value. I just feel like when someone gives you something with feeling, you should hang onto it. I suppose that is sentimental value, but I don't miss it. What was I going to do with it anyway?
But the things in our tiny, rented house are like a museum of our late teens, early-20s. I wonder sometimes if because Jeff and I met when we were 19 that we're doomed to sort of always be 19-year-olds to each other.
The first step was to break away from our parents. I was pretty independent early on. I don't deserve a special award for this, but I've paid my own bills for years and years now. I'm surprised with how many people my age don't.
And I think the final step to growing up is to chuck the hand-me-down furniture, the old cards, the broken picture frames, the clothes that don't fit and never ever will (I have a pair of jeans my mom gave me more than 5 years ago I'm still holding out hope for), the goddamn Yankee throw blanket that Jeff actually once used as a wall decoration (I wish I was joking), and everything else that's weighing us down.
The first thing to do is get rid of this stupid, cursed set of drawers. It might be suggested I donate it to charity, but honestly, this bureau is like the video in The Ring, and I don't want someone else to have to find themselves cursing at an inanimate object.
But seriously, does anyone have any kerosene? I promise it will be a controlled fire and in no way will I be laughing maniacally...