Scenario: You’re searching through your stuff one day and something catches you off guard. Out of the corner of your eye you suddenly see that photo of your ex. She’s smiling. Your smiling. The photo itself hits you like a slap in the head.
Then Murphy’s Law kicks in and you start to find other stuff from that happier time in your life laying around that whole damn house. Now you begin to scratch your head thinking, ‘How the hell did this happen? Why didn’t I notice this sooner? It’s only been fourteen months since she left.’ You realize that what you are finding are things that you don’t want out anymore but don’t want to get rid of either.
Now you’re caught in a situation. You know you need to clean up these items of emotional baggage and get rid of them. You also know that they are a big part of you from a wonderful time in your life when things actually made sense with that other person in the photo. So, do you fuck with your mind or gouge out your heart? What do you do when it’s time to move on to bigger and better things? You head on over to one of those emotionally sterilized padded asylums like Michaels, Target or Hobby Lobby and get one of those nifty special boxes they sell. You know the kind. They look like they’re giving you a botany lesson on how to dissect flowers and insects while travelling to unknown parts of the world.
So you put all that emotional baggage away in one box – fill that sucker to the brim – and shove it in the back of your closet where you can no longer consciously see it. At the same time, you have the subconscious emotional reassurance that you still have it there as part of the memory vault you’ve accumulated over the years with every other special box that exists in the back of your Davy Jones’ Locker collection. It begins to dawn on you that your wardrobe’s memory vault is probably how the term ‘skeletons in the closet’ came into existence in the first place.
With that in mind, you begin to think about the Twinkie theory. Now your closet has become the containment unit from Ghostbusters with all these pissed off ghosts and rabid spectral entities jammed into it like rush hour on a Japanese railway station. As Winston would say, “that’s a big Twinkie.” Oh well. At least it’s contained back there for the time being where I don’t have to look at it right now.
Sometimes I wonder if there are others out there who can relate to this scenario. How much memorable, wonderful, happy, disappointing, depressing and horrible shit do you have in the back of your Twinkie armoire?
One of these days, I may just haul out all of the special boxes and torch the bastards all at once in a grand bonfire to the Great Spirits of destiny, fate, bad decisions and inevitable outcomes. I’m not quite there yet but I can see it potentially happening on the day that a UFO lands on the White House front lawn.
The Amazing Mephisto