Things that spark joy.
Things that don’t spark joy.
Things that potentially could spark joy in a Mad Max post-apocalyptic scenario. Or if I, like, find the right pencil skirt to match.
Things that sparked joy until my cat puked on them.
Things that don’t necessarily “spark joy”—which, to be honest sounds like an electric shock or how an arsonist signs a holiday card—so much as keep my ears warm in January.
Things I forgot I owned given to me by well-meaning aunts who worry I’ll be left behind in the rapture.
Things I’ve been meaning to return to my friend Megan that will collect in a box in my dining room for the next seven and a half months before I remember to give them back at a brunch both of us hopes the other will cancel, so we can each finish binge-watching the latest season of Orange Is the New Black in solitude.
Things I wore on Halloween to attract men.
Things my mother gave me that my father gave her that I keep out of guilt because tossing feels like it might manifest a divorce.
Things from Anthropologie’s clearance rack I purchased from salespeople who judged me.
Full-priced things from Anthropologie that made my breasts look like a single papaya.
Expensive sandals that messed up my credit score and ultimately gave me blisters.
Half-melted tubes of Blistex.
Self-help books that gave up on me.
Metallic eyeshadows that clash with my middle management lifestyle.
Facial serums bought on a whim while on vacation under the spell of a sexy Italian named Antonio after his accent and long eyelashes beckoned me to his outdoor mall kiosk.
Jillian Michaels workout DVDs still in their shrink wrap.
Photographs of unidentifiable newborns from friends I no longer see.
Blenders rarely used because they take too much effort to reach.
Cords.