The Leftovers

Dear Butch,

I seem to be stuck with this box of your stuff.  And by your stuff, I mean a collection of all the crap the ex-butches in my life have left behind.  Not just the emotional baggage that you plopped on my doorstep as you scurried off to be with your new flavor of the month.  But the physical items you forgot in my home and my car.  Clothing, electronics, sex accessories, tupperware, and power tools.  It is like a bad scavenger hunt each time I do a deep cleaning of my place.  I move the couch to vaccum and I find a pair of your boxers.  I go through my fridge and stumble upon your hammer.  I dig through my glove box and discover your nipple clamps.  I collect these items in a box in my hallway, hoping that one day you will call and ask if I found X,Y, and Z of yours.  I will sweetly reply yes and you will be grateful I didn’t burn X, Y, and Z.  You be a responsible and respectful adult who will pop over on your way home from work the next day to pick up X, Y, and Z and my home will feel purged and whole again.

But, who the fuck am I kidding.

I am so tired of holding on to these items covered in your DNA.  I have asked politely for you to come and remove them.  I even offered to ship them, at no cost to you, to your new home.  You refuse to cooperate as usual.  So, push comes to shove.  I am going to sell your shit.  You think I am kidding, but I am beyond being amused by your games and your malarkey.  Plus, there is this great Chanel clutch that I have been drooling over for months.

You have twenty-four hours and I am not going to rearrange my life for the pick-up of your leftovers.




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