Chelsea James



I bought a box of file folders the other day. I still haven’t opened it. It’s sitting there tempting me like a box of spoons tempts a caveman who usually eats with his hands. What use are file folders to a person who keeps damn near everything? Oh, look, ‘everything’ has now been filed. Oh, look, ‘everything’ is now in boxes. Six hundred files in seventeen neat boxes. I don’t know who I’m trying to fool. I’m one of these people who should just hire someone to take all their crap outside and burn it, on a random date, once a decade. I seriously doubt I’d miss it. And, hey, I wouldn’t have to guilt myself into buying freaking file folders.

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