Save me from myself
So here is how it is. I am a compulsive collector of stuff. I have beads coming out my ears. I have bins of old broken jewelry. I have so many little plastic bins my basement is starting to look like the home storage aisle at Shopko after Christmas.
This has to end. This stuff has to go. It has to be assembled into usable, interesting items, and sold. It must be shoveled out the door.
Please, please,PLEASE buy my stuff.
You see it's like this. I have junk. You have money. You will go to Etsy and look at my jewelry store (Named Brinemere). You will browse all the interesting pictures, and maybe even pin a couple of them. You will be impressed by my creativity. 'Wow', you will say. How does she think things like that up?
You will validate me. I will be able to look in the mirror and say: They like me! They really like me!
PLEASE buy my stuff. Otherwise I can't be responsible for the deaths that will occur when my pile of loose parts starts to shift. I'd be found at the bottom of a heap of labeled findings bins, a broken screw-type earring clasped in each hand. This is not necessarily a bad way to go, in my opinion. However, the thought of being found in such a state by my daughter Eloise gives me a bit of pause. The old dear might leave me there until a more convenient time, and I'd miss my own funeral.
This has to end. This stuff has to go. It has to be assembled into usable, interesting items, and sold. It must be shoveled out the door.
Please, please,PLEASE buy my stuff.
You see it's like this. I have junk. You have money. You will go to Etsy and look at my jewelry store (Named Brinemere). You will browse all the interesting pictures, and maybe even pin a couple of them. You will be impressed by my creativity. 'Wow', you will say. How does she think things like that up?
You will validate me. I will be able to look in the mirror and say: They like me! They really like me!
PLEASE buy my stuff. Otherwise I can't be responsible for the deaths that will occur when my pile of loose parts starts to shift. I'd be found at the bottom of a heap of labeled findings bins, a broken screw-type earring clasped in each hand. This is not necessarily a bad way to go, in my opinion. However, the thought of being found in such a state by my daughter Eloise gives me a bit of pause. The old dear might leave me there until a more convenient time, and I'd miss my own funeral.
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