So here goes. I'm addicted to school supplies. There, I said it. I feel better already.
See, I told you so. This is a view of the top drawer of my filing cabinet. These are the writing implements currently in use. There are more.
If I remember correctly, it started very,very early in my school career. I remember getting my new box of crayons, and cracking them open for the first time. There were so many possibilities in that new box. So many pictures to color, so many things that could happen, so much...potential. Even today, the smell of new crayons is sort of like... possibilities.
Once, when I was six or seven, my big sister (yep Barb, I'm going to tell this story, so just brace yourself) was helping me color with my BRAND NEW BOX OF 64 - my first one ever. And she broke one of my crayons. Not on purpose, but that doesn't matter. The damage was done just the same. I remember it was the white one. She remembers it too, because I remind her of it every chance I get. It falls somewhere in the top three injustices she did to me as a kid, right before cutting my hair and right after dropping a can of corn on my pinkie toenail so hard that it fell off and has never been the same shape since. But I digress.
She broke my new white crayon in half. Then tried to fix it with - I'm not making this up, I promise - duct tape. So not only was one of my new crayons broken, it was rednecked up to the point of unusability. A few years ago at Christmas she tried to make it up to me with this:
I'll admit that I thought it was a nice gesture. At least I did until I opened the box up and saw this:
Ahhh, family.
Anyway, back to me.
I remember the absolute pleasure when Mama agreed that the Trapper Keeper with kittens on it would NOT do for 5th grade, even though it was still in good condition. I was in 5TH GRADE, for goodness sake, and I wanted, no I NEEDED, the blue one.
This fetish, or addiction, or whatever you want to call it, has followed me into adulthood. I have very specific needs when it comes to my pencils (.7 lead, 3-4 inches long), my pens (rollerball, black ink), and my legal pads (small in size, white only). The manager of my local Staples believes me to be in love with him, and truth be told, I can see his appeal. That employee discount... lord have mercy, that's hot.I've always heard that confession is good for the soul, so I've put this out there for all the world to see and to judge. But now it's time to sign off. I need to refill my stapler.
I LOVE TO GARDEN.
