Let’s suppose that this sportsac pochette was a fake sportsac that you picked up in a random market in Kuala Lumpur when you were visiting said city with the love of your life at the time. Let’s say the pochette was filled with old pens from your business school days. Why do they even work today, you ask? As if to mock you, as if to say that the common mass-produced ink outruns the life of your relationships.
Let’s suppose that said pochette filled with pens with eternal writability came in a box that said ex-boyfriend mailed to you with tons of other miscellaneous garbage and by miscellaneous garbage I mean rusty pots and pans, a musty old duvet you have barely any recollection of, old soft toys, broken (yes broken) rolling pins and god knows what else that can fit into 2 boxes and thirty six kilos shipped by overnight mail.
And you ask yourself, why. Why would someone do such a thing. Why, instead of sending what you had asked for, would they send you stationery and unnecessary bedding and musty things that trigger your allergies…. Why would they be so disrespectful as to give you the task of dealing with 36 kilos of shite at your office with your boss’s boss asking you “Jupiter, what are those boxes?” You curse yourself for giving this man your office address instead of your home address even though that was probably the right thing to do at the time. How could you have known that this would happen? All you wanted was your year book, your cookbook and your grandma’s silver lamp, right?
Right. So you make the best of the situation. You divide and conquer. You decide on what needs to donated (clothes and duvets and shit), what can stay in the office (pens to make colorful spanish notes?), what needs to go home (books) and what needs to be binned. But of course i will take a few days to get rid of everything.
And in doing so, you forget about the wicked and wild, hedonistic and unequivocally bonkers weekend you’ve just had. Or for that matter, all the wicked and wild weekends you’ve had because nothing is quite as horrible as 2 dusty and musty boxes teleporting you 14 months back into the past when you were in that blissfully unaware New York apartment reading an email that would turn your whole life upside down. You lost a job and your heart and all you have to show for it 14 months later is a motherfucking fake Sportsac pochette filled with pink and purple pilot pens.
If you’re reading this, he who shall not be named, I hope to all the powers that be that you rot in the deepest reaches of hell because it must have taken all the evil in your sad little heart to unabashedly pack a musty duvet and ship it all the way to Hong Kong using overnight mail to hurt me for no rhyme or reason. You are a shabby soul and a worthless human being and while in so many ways, I should be grateful that we are not together, I curse my luck for ever having loved you the way I did and the time I did it for.
p.s. I am okay. I am not sad. Just perplexed. Rotten luck can be a bit hard to come to terms with sometimes… sometimes…