Everything I own is broken.
I mean, not really, but basically.
I have nineteen remote controls that operate exactly zero things.
There’s probably a raccoon in the attic again. Either that or an army of voles. I had to look up what a vole was when the thought occurred to me.
The dishwasher rack is stuck and can’t be used.
The overhead light in the kitchen ceased operations a while back.
Someone hit my car today. Just a little.
My iPad screen is cracked.
I suppose the fact that there are 29 children — more or less, the number varies — living at my house isn’t helping matters.
And these children. You guys, they want dinner EVERY NIGHT. Every night of the whole, wide year.
So it’s all broken. All of it. I’m sure if the computer I’m typing on isn’t already broken, it will be any second.
Who else has this problem? I don’t recall breaking ALL THE THINGS when I was a child. Did we just have less cool things and I couldn’t be bothered to mess with them? Was I watched like a hawk every second of the day?
My children are, as we speak, conspiring to rent a bulldozer and remove the north facing load bearing wall, I just know it. I’m going to come home from work to a 14 foot hole in the house, my children eating cereal, Disney Channel on the TV, and they’re all going to look at me like, “What? What are you mad about? Stop getting so angry about the little things, GEEZ.”
Jesus take the wheel.
I’ve decided to just go with it, you guys. I’m just going to live in this freezing vole-infested home where every screen is cracked and just hang on for dear life without overheard lights or working dishwashers.
It’s the more sane option.
To try and fix everything would require 100% of my life, and ain’t nobody got time for that.
Who’s with me? Who’s ready to just let their possessions turn into a giant dumpster fire of brokenness and then meet me for fancy coffee or a trip to somewhere cooler than my house?
Let’s do this.
