It’s almost time to move out of my apartment. For the weathercavemates and me to go our separate ways. It’s a melancholy feeling. Choking back tears, saying our goodbyes, and most importantly – figuring out whose shit is whose.

Yes, you know it will be the same for you. You too have the rusting bike, the whiffle bat, the scuffed up magazines with embarassing content, and plenty of other random items sitting in your garage or sleeping on your couch – all of them of indeterminate origin.

No one will claim them. In the end, the dumpster will have them. And yet, right now, they loom, imposing, waiting to be moved.

“That’s totally yours.”

“I gave it to you, remember.”

“I said I didn’t want it.”

“I don’t remember hearing that.”

Thursday’s forecast: Impending garage sale.