Life as a Warehouse

Yesterday, that woman Charlie came by again. But this time she stayed all day. She walked through me several times doing nothing effective that I could see.

One of the men that was working here, drilling holes through my new wood frames for wires, let Charlie adjoin walls with him for a second. And then not! How do they do that? I know they do this breathing thing, but where they joined would have blocked them from breathing. Maybe that's why they didn't stay that way?

Anyway, it looks like I will no longer be used for what the Tradewind Hawaii guys called "storage", which is just a fancy word for being an organ donor to other buildings, and I will now hold something called yarn.

It sounds tickly.

At the end of the workday, Charlie walked back through me and sighed. She seemed to be sizing up my space and coming up with all kinds of ideas for how to decorate me. Ugh. Really, what's the problem with having a stud showing? Or unpainted floors? My mother said to me, "If the house needs painting, paint it." But my father said, "A house is beautiful in proportion to the amount of paint it can afford to leave alone." They aren't mutually exclusive ideas, but I wonder if Charlie thinks I'm ugly?