No One Feels Sorry For You When You Tell Them You Have to Move to Paris
My life has taken a sharp left turn and now I have to leave my beautiful southern Californian life and move to Europe, where they still insist on having winter because they are savages who enjoy hat head.
This might be the trial run for my death, since everyone listening to you lament the loss of your ridiculous possessions insists, “When you die, you know you can’t take it with you.” Idiots, all of them. Maybe I have found a way to take it all with me. They don’t know.
I’m now forced to revisit some of my unfortunate buys. I open up closets or drawers and see something I no longer use, usually because it didn’t work, I couldn’t return it, or I just didn’t have the heart to throw it away. I don’t know what I was waiting for because it’s doubtful the item is going to miraculously start working or my body is going to spontaneously revert back to a Size 2.
Sidebar: I was never a size 2.
But now I have to move to France and am downsizing, which is a fancy way of saying, “Throwing stuff away I love but can’t take to Paris.”
Sidebar: I really do have to move to Paris.
I came across one of my purchases: a wireless mouse. Granted, I bought it off EBay for only $6.25 and it had Caveat Emptor written on it in hieroglyphics so I should have known better. But at the time, I could no longer function with a mouse CORD. Oh my God, the problems I have.
From the moment it arrived, there was trouble. It came with a USB 2.0 port rumored to be inside the mouse. Seriously, INSIDE the mouse? Should I tell you about the first time I tried to find a tampon string and pull it out of me? I didn’t think so. Has scotch tape become obsolete, can we no longer attach something to the outside of something else? Why does life hate me?
I entered into an email exchange with the seller of this item. Our emails were like the Hunt for Red October, wherein the USB port is the submarine and I’m Jack Ryan. The man on the other end of our correspondence, if you can call swearing in caps a type of correspondence, must have thought I was born without a brain. And since I don’t have an EEG machine at my house, he could be right. Or maybe I already packed it because you know, moving.
When I finally found the USB port, on my 106th birthday, I set it up but it didn’t work. It has never worked. So Mr. Mouse sat in a drawer making me feel bad. And yes I know no one can make you feel bad without your permission, that you do that by yourself but IT MAKES ME FEEL BAD. So it’s not even going in the donate pile, it’s going in the recycle bin. If I could I’d take it on the plane and open the emergency exit and throw it out but I don’t think I’d do well in prison.
[I’m moving to Paris to take care of my ailing mom, who is going to be 92 in December so I may be in and out of Medium. In other news, I have a LOT of crap to wade through and I’m in a worse mood than I usually am.]
