Laundry time. In gathering all my clothes to bring down to the laundry room, I find a white undershirt. I always wear a white undershirt, so this isn't so strange, but the state it is in causes me to stop and wonder. First of all, the shirt has dark dirt and grass stains all over the front. Secondly, the back of the left sleeve has a rip in it.
And I don't remember why. Telling by how deep in the pile this shirt was, the damage was done about a week-and-a-half ago. What the hell did I do?
I say to Mr. Happy Puppet Head, I say, "Hey, what did I do about a week-and-a-half ago that would make my shirt look like this?" And he says "I don't know."
Mr. Happy Puppet Head does all of our laundry. He gets upset at the way I mix colors with whites and says I use too much soap. And apparently I can't fold. So he takes the shirt along with the rest of the stuff and begins the process of laundry.
So what did I do to make my shirt all dirty and torn? Yard work? I seem to remember catching the sleeve on something and it ripping and I didn't really care at the time. It's just an undershirt. But all I remember is the feeling of not caring that it was ripped. All context has mysteriously faded from memory.
So is this the very begining of my memory slowly wiping clean? One of my main positive attributes soon to morph into one of my flaws? Old people warn me, but I don't believe them. They say, "The memory is the first to go," but not me. I may die, I may get fat, and I may one day have to perform dental surgery on myself while stranded on a deserted island, but my mind is mine. Leave off it, Life! Hear me?
Oh. It was from when that tree feel in the front yard and I had to chop it up and drag it down to the front lawn. I borrowed an electric chainsaw from the neighbors. Donovan was his name.