I Hate Me, part 499,103
I live in the house that my wife grew up in. There are a few heirlooms that a museum style protection is given to. Highest on that list is “the jelly closet”, a large cabinet in the dining room that is full of family treasures. No drinks will ever sit on it, even with a coaster. There is also an old red stool in the kitchen that I thought was on the heirloom list as well. I even imagined a back story where Carrie’s dad brought it back with him from the war, a souvenir liberated from Hitler’s bunker. This goddamned stool is always in my way. I’ve bumped into it and tripped over it’s legs more times than I care to mention. I had grown to hate this thing, it sits there stoic like some zen master only to move right behind me when I’m not looking. I had gingerly mentioned to Carrie my hatred for the stool and how I had to defer to it because of the family history attached to it. She gave me a kind patronizing look that one would give to slow people and explained that she bought the stool years ago and that I even helped her move it to this house, to the best of her knowledge neither of her parents were ever aware of the stool and she was a little worried that I had such hatred for an inanimate object. I heard these things but in my mind I heard “Alright stool, you’re not protected. It’s on!”. The next morning as I was getting my coffee, I turned around and bumped into the stool. I lashed out with a feeble kick, really hurting my big toe but I knocked over the stool. Victory. The victory was short lived as the falling hated stool knocked over another stool that I was fairly ambivalent about which had a small stack of records and cd’s on it, these went flying all over the kitchen table knocking over pretty much everything. “hey asshole, pick me up” It was the red stool, I had entered into my own private Twilight Zone. Not really, I just cleaned everything up and felt like an idiot.