I am a post-it note fiend. I scribble notes on them constantly. Then I lose them. Then they turn up six months later in a pile of papers and look important so I save them, just in case. This is a personal flaw, but eh, so what–I don’t actually have to get over all of my flaws before I die. So far as I know, there is no prize if you expire with unbitten fingernails. But that’s neither here nor there.
Unfortunately, I have no posti-it notes at the moment, and like any good houseguest, I am trying to minimize my clutter generation, so my note surface is now one ripped sheet of typing paper next to my computer.
After a month, it’s gotten a little…odd.
It has phone numbers on both sides, the name of an insurance agent, the URL of the local collision shop, the word “GOGGLES!!” in large letters, underlined twice, a small doodle of a chicken with a sign saying “Cluck!” and, perhaps most disturbing, a carefully labelled chart of the female reproductive anatomy, with an arrow saying “Endometrium, damnit.”
Each of these–except perhaps the chicken–were briefly crucial to my existence. This worries me sometimes.