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Once upon a whenever, I took my Boy Friend to see “Cats: The Musical.”
“Do you have any idea what the Hell they are singing about?” He asked during intermission.
“Not a clue.”
“Thank fuck. I thought it was just me.”
“A pussy cat sings about memories soon, I think,” I informed him.
“I’ve heard that before…”
I don’t remember too much more about the night. We had consumed bourbon for the entire drive to the venue, see. We were either drunk or Andrew Llyod Webber had tapped into a realm that we could not understand. Or both.
I only remember the event because I found the theatre tickets in an old purse. It triggered my memory and, I’m not going to lie, my first recollection was, “Wasn’t this the night I spilt my drink down my shirt as I walked in?”

My mother forced me to pack up my bedroom, so that she can turn it into a guest room, gym, shrine to my brother or all of the above. In laymen’s terms, I was instructed to ensure that there was no evidence left to insinuate that I ever resided in her house.
“What you don’t take with you, I am burning,” she informed me.
“I’ve heard that before…”
Suddenly, years of my life had to fit into a suitcase and anything inconsequential had to be thrown out. An easy task, one would think, considering everything in my life could be deemed inconsequential at the best of times. However, being somewhat Type A, meticulous and a hoarder, I had a lot of shit and decided to individually sort through every item of paraphernalia I had ever owned. My mind boggle’s at how I found the time to complete three university degrees, drink a small Asian nation’s quota for alcohol consumption and not only buy sock puppets but give them name tags and store them somewhere safe.

Because I am living by the increasingly proven theory that scotch is good for you, I ignore all of the supposed repercussions of excessive alcohol consumption damaging vital organs and, therefore, I have never considered myself to have irreversible damage like forgetfulness. Many people would disagree with that, of course. But to them I say, “No. I didn’t forget. I just didn’t care.” Then I pour them a scotch. Craziness ensues.
Filling through my possessions, useless crap I once upon a whenever thought that I desperately needed, I found triggers to memories throughout my life, some of which left bullet holes of regret, remorse or muscle pain from laughter.
I once owned a Chia Pet. It was dead, nine times over. But, I mean, you just can’t make that shit up.

I found, underneath piles of university documents, bills that someone else must have paid and discarded underwear, multiple photographs of ex-boyfriends. Apparently, somewhere along the line, I had not only taken pictures but given them a reason and stored them somewhere safe.
“Oh, I remember him!” I said while starring at an image of an oft-forgotten ex, who, ironically, may win the title for my longest relationship. He was stunningly beautiful and I spent the remainder of the day trying to work out why I broke up with him. Then I found pictures of the next ex.
“Oh. That’s right…”
The visuals put thoughts in my mind, which is all kinds of unusual, because I am not a porn type of person. I reminisced about all of the experiences and lessons I had learned between them and now. There had been a lot of heart ache, a lot of people who never had the invitation to be in a picture, and, now, I was in a position where I had to fit all of that baggage into one suitcase to go back to Los Angeles.

It can be hard trying to work out how to turn everything you have ever experienced into a positive one. Sometimes, we need triggers to be reminded that a lesson was actually learned. Because I am living by the increasingly proven theory that scotch is good for you, I blame all of my bad choices on its power. But, the truth is, everything that is in my room, or everything that has happened in it, made me who I am. The sock puppets, the photographs of the ex boyfriends, the stuff that you just can’t make up. But, maybe because it is actually all so inconsequential, everything fit into one suitcase.
For me to take back to my house in LA, where I will make more mistake, learn more lessons and, no doubt, get more baggage.