u/FableFallo

There’s a certain thrill I get every time I cross something off my to-do list. A feeling of betterment, like I’m marching ever so closer to a goal I can achieve, getting little hits of it before I’ve arrived. Today’s to-do list seems rather mundane but believe me dear reader when I tell you just how great it can be to see hard work pay off. Starting my day off it’s simple: check my e-mail, hit the bathroom, brush my teeth, hop in the shower. I don’t put things like this on my to-do list because they’re routine in a way and don’t make me feel accomplished anymore but when I was at my lowest, they were certainly accomplishments. Feel free to put them on yours if you feel how I did back then. Cross them off as you complete them, don’t feel bogged down if you miss a shower or something, it’s okay to see tomorrow as a new opportunity.

Heading into the kitchen I start on my list and my day by wiping down the fridge before retrieving three eggs, some butter, and some ketchup. I prefer my eggs scrambled so while I cook them up I put my bread in the toaster, remembering to also wipe it down after use. Shortly my breakfast is prepared and I can sit down at my kitchen table with a well deserved meal. The plastic lining on the table and chairs irks me a little but it’s worth it to keep my place tidy. After breakfast it’s time to clean up everything in the sink, methodically rinsing and washing every instrument I previously used. It’s not great to let them pile up because after a while it’s almost impossible to get the stains out so best to do them every day really. 

There’s a nice satisfaction of watching all the red streaks flee down the drain following the water. While washing I notice a little cut on my hand, it bleeds a little, watching the fresh blood mix with the running water as it glides down my hand almost like it’s being extracted puts a smile on my face. But just as quickly as I started, I’m finished and task one is cleared off the to-do list. See what I mean? It’s rewarding! Next up is replacing all of the plastic lining, and taking it out for disposal. Best practice is to throw it in the burn pit, nothing can come out of it and as long as you’re cautious it doesn’t pose any risks to the user. Of course I take out the rest of the waste with the plastic, but these have to go elsewhere. On the other side of the ranch is the pig pen, and they eat anything. There’s an unceremonious plopping sound as the buckets are poured into the trough. The buckets are also subsequently cleaned.

It’s like a symphony watching everything come together like this. With the kitchen cleaned, the trash taken out, and the pigs fed, it’s time for my final task of the day before I can finally relax and cross the day off in my head so I can enjoy some me time, adding my latest trophy to the collection. I cautiously place the left shoe, unclean and tainted by hideousness into a pristine glass case, set it on the shelf with the rest, and that’s a day complete. I understand how mundane it can seem, but it is truly rewarding watching your work pay off, your hobby grow, and of course, feeling like you’re perfecting your craft. Thanks for reading!

Nostalgia is a funny thing. Sometimes when the fog clears I can still see into the childhood I had. Standing here that fog is all but gone, this barn was my childhood. My first memory in life is of my dad putting up this swing set. Come sit with me, swings always held the best conversations, and told the best stories, so let me tell you mine. 

My mother always told me to stop keeping my toys out here in the barn, said they’d get dirty or broken and I’d be so sad when it happened. But of course I never listened, I took everything I had out to this barn, my friends would come over for play dates and we’d spend the whole day in the barn. The parents stayed inside for the most part, coming out only to bring us some drinks on hot days, remind us to come in for lunch, or devastatingly call the day and head home for the evening. But we’d always return back to the barn. We would play games about being all grown up, tending to the barn like it was a house of our own, we’d pretend we were great adventurers finding artifacts lost to history, finding places no one else ever knew. Those were the days, Sammy and I always lead the charge, he and I grew up together here. 

We sat in the hayloft anxious about what middle school would hold for us, praying we’d have all our classes together, hoping to never be separated. We planted our lives in the barn, we wrote essays for school that were practically identical, we cheated for our Spanish tests together, we solved equations that were typically wrong but we were wrong together. Sammy told me about this girl he was sweet on, she was gorgeous and he really thought he’d have a shot. They went on a date, he had his first kiss, but he told me something didn’t feel right. I didn’t know what he meant at the time. 

I was fifteen when I moved into the barn, my parents didn’t mind since I practically spent all my time there anyways but I still came in when the winters were bad. Sammy all but moved in with me, we spent every day together. We stole a couple of beers from my dad one night and thought we were so drunk, we stole a cigarette from my mom’s purse and thought we were so cool trying to suppress our coughs to seem tough. We tried smoking weed one night and a lot of realness came out, Sammy came out. He kissed me. 

We stayed together for the next three years of high school. We lived, we loved. But I never questioned why he stayed here so much, I never wondered why he chose to be here and not at home. Maybe if I knew I could’ve helped him, maybe I could’ve done something. I wouldn’t have sent him home that winter, I would’ve harshed it out with him, I would’ve… I would’ve seen him again.

Nostalgia is a funny thing. Sometimes when the fog clears I can still see into the childhood I had. Standing here that fog is all but gone, this barn was my childhood. My first memory in life is of my dad putting up this swing set. Come sit with me, swings always held the best conversations, and told the best stories, so let me tell you mine. 

My mother always told me to stop keeping my toys out here in the barn, said they’d get dirty or broken and I’d be so sad when it happened. But of course I never listened, I took everything I had out to this barn, my friends would come over for play dates and we’d spend the whole day in the barn. The parents stayed inside for the most part, coming out only to bring us some drinks on hot days, remind us to come in for lunch, or devastatingly call the day and head home for the evening. But we’d always return back to the barn. We would play games about being all grown up, tending to the barn like it was a house of our own, we’d pretend we were great adventurers finding artifacts lost to history, finding places no one else ever knew. Those were the days, Sammy and I always lead the charge, he and I grew up together here. 

We sat in the hayloft anxious about what middle school would hold for us, praying we’d have all our classes together, hoping to never be separated. We planted our lives in the barn, we wrote essays for school that were practically identical, we cheated for our Spanish tests together, we solved equations that were typically wrong but we were wrong together. Sammy told me about this girl he was sweet on, she was gorgeous and he really thought he’d have a shot. They went on a date, he had his first kiss, but he told me something didn’t feel right. I didn’t know what he meant at the time. 

I was fifteen when I moved into the barn, my parents didn’t mind since I practically spent all my time there anyways but I still came in when the winters were bad. Sammy all but moved in with me, we spent every day together. We stole a couple of beers from my dad one night and thought we were so drunk, we stole a cigarette from my mom’s purse and thought we were so cool trying to suppress our coughs to seem tough. We tried smoking weed one night and a lot of realness came out, Sammy came out. He kissed me. 

We stayed together for the next three years of high school. We lived, we loved. But I never questioned why he stayed here so much, I never wondered why he chose to be here and not at home. Maybe if I knew I could’ve helped him, maybe I could’ve done something. I wouldn’t have sent him home that winter, I would’ve harshed it out with him, I would’ve… I would’ve seen him again.