Thanks a lot, Eddie

 

No, really, I mean it. You were most likely trying to help, if it was you that knocked the beer glass off of the shelf. And if it wasn't you, then thank you, Sharon's ghost, or who or whatever kinetic force decided it was time to try initiate in me more than the cursory weekly skim job that passes for housekeeping. 

Someone had in mind to try to break me of my little old man hoarding ways, and what better way to start, than to toss a glass on the tile floor. Throw down the gauntlet. Let the examination of all things accumulated begin. Here, I'll start for ya...smash.

No. Sorry, guys. I'm not gonna buy into it. And leave my Precious alone, you!

Then there's the story about the enlightened guy who says this:

“Do you see this glass?” he asked us. “I love this glass. It holds the water admirably. When the sun shines on it, it reflects the light beautifully. When I tap it, it has a lovely ring. Yet for me, this glass is already broken. When the wind knocks it over or my elbow knocks it off the shelf and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ But when I understand that this glass is already broken, every minute with it is precious.”

Easier to copy and paste than to summarize, sorry. Easy come, easy go, sure. Whatever works for you, zen dude. But the idea that all my precious shit is already burned up in a fire or destroyed in an earthquake just makes me more likely to be a hoarder and cling sentimentally to my accumulated junk.  I'm probably gonna need that cataclysm pretty soon, or I'm never gonna even vacuum the dust in the corners.

Nice try, though. I did wind up clearing a nice spot on the window sill for the cats to gaze out on the back deck. They had been prevented from doing that for years, because I used the space to store stuff. So your little tantrum, or whatever it is that happened, did gain you that little concession. Keep smashing stuff, maybe I'll be forced to clean some other areas, and you'll gain even more valuable cat real estate.

To be fair, I didn't actually see the cat do it. She's just my go-to scapegoat. And I only blame her and not the fat one, because the fat one rarely does anything, like, at all. I could be dealing with a poltergeist that really hated that beer glass; one never knows.