To my cat, doors are the enemy. That includes the hall door where the evil vacuum lives, and the dreaded bathroom door, which she has learned to push open—self taught—to the surprise of guests who mutter, “Wait, wait. There’s someone in here.”
When my friend’s mother died, she inherited a steamer trunk. She assumed it held the sentimental detritus of her childhood: photos, baby shoes, grade school report cards, artwork from her early poster paint period
including the cubist rendition of her family who seemed to have triangular heads.
I just found out that I am too stupid to live. This saddened me because I’d always thought I was fairly smart. But I did something idiotic that crushed my ego flatter than an old Buick at a salvage yard.