I am constantly consumed with lists.
To-do lists, grocery lists, idea lists, lists about blogging, lists on my phone, lists on my laptop, lists on my bulletin board, my bucket list, people on my shit list, a running list of items that I can hold under my boob (included: a VCR. So proud of that).
It’s a necessary evil. If I don’t write shit down, I forget it. It’s how I manage my ADD. It helps me focus.
I have a tendency to add unnecessary items to them solely for the purpose of amusing myself.
I also really enjoy hijacking other people’s lists & secretly adding “buy chlamydia cream” or “don’t forget to wash the dingleberries off of your butt.”
It’s fun for me. Not so much for those who have children who read.
Once in awhile I leave notes for myself. I’ll leave them in coat pockets & purses & in the box with all our Christmas decorations. I found this one yesterday:
I wondered if I was the only one who does this & then I remembered discovering a list that my mother had inscribed. I liked it so much I took a picture of it. And then made fun of her. She loved that.
Do shit around the house? Meds? GIN?!
Even if I didn’t look just like her, it’s more than obvious that I am the fruit of her loins.
There is a method to the madness.