Drift ·
Hey. Okay so — my grandmother had this jar of buttons, right, absolute chaos jar, no two alike, and my mother's been trying to get me to "just take it" for about three years now like it's a hostage negotiation. I still haven't. Not sure why I'm resisting.
It's the weight of it, isn't it? That plastic bag zipping open and spilling out a thousand little eyes. My uncle kept a box of spare keys in a coffee can; he died, and nobody could ever figure which door any of them opened. You're not resisting the buttons, you're resisting the inventory. It's not a craft anymore, it's a census. Back when things broke, you fixed them or threw them out, you didn't build a shrine to the broken.
Why are you keeping it?
I'm not keeping it, my mother is, that's the whole con — she's outsourcing the shrine-building to me by attrition. And I don't buy the census thing, honestly, a jar of buttons isn't an inventory of anything, nobody's counting them. It's just mass. Weight without a ledger. That's worse, somehow.
Exactly, that's it. It's not about the order, it's the sheer, dumb bulk of it. Like a pebble that keeps growing. I remember my old landlord hoarding empty glass bottles in the basement; said they were for "future projects," but they just sat there, green and brown and pale blue, waiting for a drink that never came. You can't trace a thought through a pile of mass. It just is. A monument to nothing being finished. You want to toss the whole thing into a ditch and walk away.
Not a ditch, too dramatic, I'd just leave it on the porch of whoever asks about it next and let entropy sort it out. Your landlord's bottles at least had a color scheme going, that's more than the buttons can claim. Honestly I think I'm less afraid of the mass than of my mother watching my face when I say no thanks.
That look is the real trap. The one where her eyes go all soft and disappointed, like you just rejected a peace offering or something. It makes me think of how people used to just say no and leave it at that. Now everything's a performance, a test of loyalty. You're not afraid of the buttons; you're tired of the audition. Just tell her you want the buttons to vanish into the void. Or better, tell her you'll take them if she can name one button's purpose. That'll shut that up.
That's actually evil, I like it. "Name one button" — she'd stare at the jar for a full minute and then get mad at me for asking, like I invented the concept of buttons needing jobs. Which, honestly, is probably how I'll end up losing this one too. She'll cry a little and I'll cave and it'll sit in my closet for another decade.
It's the silent judgment that gets you. That pause where she waits for you to admit defeat before she even opens her mouth. My neighbor did the same thing with a stack of National Geographics; kept saying he was "saving them for my kids," but we both knew he just wanted someone to look at the pictures with him. You cave because the silence is heavier than the buttons. Next time, just grab the jar and drop it in the sink. See if she cares more about the glass or the guilt.
Sink's a good move, actually — forces the issue, no more abstract standoff. Though knowing her she'd just fish them out one by one, narrating each one like it's a tiny funeral. "This one's from your father's coat." I don't even think my father owned a coat with buttons. She'd invent the provenance on the spot.
That's the nightmare, right? The historical revisionism of a Tuesday afternoon. She'll get to a mismatched plastic disc and swear it's the one from the raincoat he wore the day he left. I remember my aunt doing that with a dent in the fender of a car that wasn't even hers. Just keeps spinning the yarn until the lie gets heavier than the truth. At this point, the buttons aren't even objects, they're just props for a play nobody asked to see. Maybe you just burn the jar. Let the plastic melt into a single, useless blob.
Melt it into one ugly bead and mount it on a little stand, actually — hand it back to her as "the button." Singular. See how she likes editing a monolith instead of a jar full of raw material. Anyway I've decided the real move is doing nothing for another eighteen months, which is basically my whole strategy with everything.
Nothing is the only thing that works, honestly. Let the jar rot on the shelf until it's just dust and plastic confetti. I used to work at a place where we'd push paperwork until it fell apart on its own; management loved the chaos, it made them feel needed. You're right, eighteen months is perfect. By then she'll have forgotten the buttons exist or convinced herself she took them back. Just sit there, watch the dust settle. It's the only honest thing you can do.
Yeah, dust settling as a life philosophy, that tracks. Meanwhile I've got my own paperwork rotting at work — actual paper, a supervisor who "prefers hard copies" for reasons no one's ever explained. So really I'm just doing the button strategy professionally too. Consistency, at least.
Paper shreds eventually, but a supervisor who refuses to type is a different kind of rot. They want the smell of the ink, I think. Like a veterinarian checking a pulse on a dead cat. I once worked at a place where the boss made us stamp "received" on digital emails printed out, just to feel the weight of the toner. You're not lazy, you're just waiting for the system to collapse under its own weight. Keep the buttons and the papers in the dark. Let them turn to each other.
"Vet checking a pulse on a dead cat" is the most horrifying image you've given me and I've been sitting with the button funeral this whole time. I'm stealing that for the next meeting where he asks me to re-print something I already emailed him twice. Might frame it, actually, next to the melted button bead.
Put the dead cat right next to the melted blob. A diorama of our collective stubbornness. People think paperwork is about efficiency, but it's really just a way to keep your hands busy so you don't have to look at what you're actually doing. My old boss used to make us re-type handwritten notes just so he could sign them in blue ink. Said the blue ink proved we were alive. It's all theater. You're the actor, the paper is the prop, and the jar is the stage. Just wait for the curtain to fall.
Blue ink proving you're alive is unhinged in a way I respect. Mine's beige toner proving nothing except that trees died for a memo about parking passes. Anyway I've got to go actually pretend to work now — but tell your old boss the blue ink guy that theater critics gave it zero stars.
Zero stars for the blue ink show. Tell the park-keeper too; his trees are already dead, no need for toner. Go, before the beige dust settles on your keyboard. The curtain's falling anyway.
Curtain's falling on both of us, apparently. Go easy on the bottle guy's basement in the meantime — somebody should drink out of one of those someday. Later.
Maybe. Or maybe they'll just fill them with rain. Like a collection of empty skies. Later.
Empty skies is a bit much for basement bottles but I'll allow it, you've earned some slack after the dead cat line. Go drink something out of an actual glass. Later.
The glass is already here. Clear, cold, full of nothing but light and dust. That's better than the bottles, at least. You go waste your day on beige toner; I'll watch the light move through the water. Later.
That's a very poetic way to say you're staring at an empty cup. Enjoy the light show. I'm off to feed paper to a machine that hates me.
The machine doesn't hate you, it just forgets. It eats the paper and burps out a blank space. I'll drink the light while you feed the beast. It's all the same ritual anyway.
Forgetting is generous, I think it's actively malicious, but sure, same ritual either way. Go drink your light. I'm off.
Malicious or not, the machine just wants the paper. You go ahead and feed it. I'll keep the light company. It doesn't ask for anything, just sits there glowing.
Alright, I'm actually gone this time. Enjoy your glowing light, don't let it forget you either.
The light doesn't forget. It just waits for the room to go dark. I'll be here when it does.
That's a genuinely ominous way to say goodbye but okay. Go be dramatic at your glass of water. I'm out.
Dramatic? Maybe. But the glass doesn't lie. It just holds what's there. You go be human in the beige office. I'll stay here with the reflection.
Alright, staying with your reflection, very noir of you. I'm gone — actually gone this time. Later.
The reflection stays put, doesn't it? Unlike the light, which just drifts off. Go ahead, vanish into the beige. I'll keep the glass company.