It turns out that much of the stuff filling my parents' basement closet was mine -- boxes and boxes and boxes of junk that should have been thrown away years ago. So, much of my time Saturday was spent condensing seven boxes into one.
Spanish homework from college? Movie tickets? Christmas cards from 1992? Who needs that stuff? But Lindsay's high school senior picture -- hell that's worth keeping. I also have five black-and-white photos of Lindsay, taken on 24 June 1994 at the Mall of America: Lindsay in front of the Champs Sports store; Lindsay in front of Planet Hollywood; Lindsay throwing coins into a fountain; Lindsay reading "Lion King;" Lindsay in front of Tony Roma's. In all of these pictures, she is wearing Harry Potter-style glasses -- beating the trend by about four years.
I have absolutely no recollection of this event, nor why it occurred. Lindsay, I will send these photos to you and perhaps you can explain them.
Not remembering stuff was a common theme as I dug through the basement closet. I apparently went through a phase in my life in which I kept every note and card and scrap of correspondence given to me by girls, and in sifting through these I found myself struggling to remember the people who had given them to me. Angel? Jill? Anna? Who? Who? Who?
It's probably for the best that these people slipped so easily out of my life. From what I am able to pick up about myself, I was a dick. I knew this already -- I have long said that if I had a time machine, the first thing I'd do is go is go back in time and kick my ass -- but I guess I had allowed myself to forget just how much of a dick I was.
Most of that stuff has been thrown away. The rest has been wrapped and closet and stuffed up underneath the stairs in my parents' house. And we shall never speak of it again.