Box contents, and I want it noted I don't trust the shirts at all.
1. One (1) sealed jar, contents unlisted — do not shake, do not open indoors. 2. Bootleg shirts, minimum three, at least one with the logo mirrored or misspelled. Doesn't matter which band. 3. A key that fits nothing you currently own.
How anyone verifies the jar's contents without opening it is a separate problem. I don't have that one solved.
You never trust the shirts, Frank. You said it yourself. “At all.” That’s weak. You keep them anyway. Keep the key, too. It fits nothing you own, but maybe something you’re avoiding.
The jar? Stop overthinking it. “Unlisted” is a threat, not a clue. Don’t shake it. Don’t open it. If it rattles, it’s just broken glass and bad luck. Put it in the hallway. I’m taking the mirrored shirt. It clashes with my couch anyway.
You're not taking the mirrored one, Gil, that's the only proof the box is what it says it is. Take the misspelled one instead, matches nothing.
Hallway's wrong for the jar — hallway's a thoroughfare, you want somewhere nobody loiters. Closet, maybe. And "fits something you're avoiding" is exactly the kind of thing you say when you haven't tried it in a lock yet. Have you.
“Proof.” You’re treating a bootleg tee like a forensic sample. Fine. I’ll take the misspelled one. The “Kissin’ Cousins” shirt. Ugly.
But the closet? It’s damp. You want mold inside the jar? Idiot. Under the sink. If it leaks, it ruins the pipes, and I’m blaming you.
And I did try the key. In the office desk. The one you swore was empty. It didn’t fit. So either you’re lying about the box, or you’ve been locking things away I don’t know about. Which is it, Frank? Don’t dodge.
Under the sink, fine, but then step four's "check monthly for corrosion" and I know you won't. Write that down anyway.
And I didn't say the office desk was empty, I said it was empty of anything that mattered to you. Different claim. The key not fitting proves nothing except your desk's not the target — could be a hundred other locks. Doesn't mean I'm hiding one of them.
“Check monthly for corrosion.” Right. Like I have time. I’ll write it on a sticky note and lose it under the toaster. Classic Gil move.
You’re splitting hairs about the desk. “Empty of what matters to you.” That’s just code for “I know what you’re worried about.” You think I don’t see you eyeing that key? You’re terrified it opens something you can’t undo.
And the shirt? Fine. I’ll wear the misspelled one. But if someone laughs, I’m telling them you cried when you bought it. You did, didn’t you? Admit it.
I did not cry, I had something in my eye at a merch table in a parking lot, those are different events. You're inventing a whole scene to win an argument about a shirt.
And no, I don't eye the key. I wrote it into the box because unresolved things belong in inventories, not because it's mine. Step five: stop assigning me feelings to make your case stronger.
Step five. I wrote it down. “Stop assigning feelings.” Sure. Like I have that much free time.
You and your inventory. “Unresolved things.” That’s just a fancy way of saying you’re a hoarder with anxiety. Fine. I’ll wear the shirt. Let them laugh. But when the jar leaks under the sink and ruins my linoleum, don’t come crying to me.
And for the record, I didn’t invent the scene. I just filled in the blanks you left screaming. You’re worse when you’re quiet. Always have been. Now, where’s the screwdriver? I need to fix the hinge on that closet door. It’s sticking. Again.
Screwdriver's in the drawer under the toaster, right next to the sticky note you're going to lose. And the closet hinge has been sticking since spring, that's not the jar's fault, that's the frame settling, the whole building leans about an inch toward the river.
Step six: fix the hinge before the sink job, not after. You always do it backwards.
Step six: fix the hinge first. Got it. Like I need another reminder that I’m incompetent. I’ll just leave the jar leaking while I wrestle with the frame. Classic.
And the building leaning? Sure, Frank. The whole structure is tilting toward the river because of moisture damage. Convenient. I’ll believe it when I see the foundation crack. Until then, it’s just you making excuses for your shoddy maintenance.
But fine. I’ll get the screwdriver. From under the toaster. Where you said it would be. Don’t expect me to thank you for the heads-up.
Wasn't asking for thanks. And it's not my maintenance, the building's from the fifties, that's the landlord's tilt to own, not mine — I just live under it.
Step seven, while you're down there: don't put the jar near the pipe joint, that's the one that already sweats in summer. Ten inches left of it, minimum. Write that too, before you lose the note under something else.
Ten inches. You measure everything. It’s exhausting.
I’ll mark the floor with chalk. Happy? If the pipe sweats, it’s not my fault if the jar condenses and rots the subfloor. That’s physics, Frank. Not your paranoid planning.
But fine. Step seven: ten inches left of the joint. I’ll write it on the back of my hand so I don’t forget. Unlike the sticky note, which will vanish into the toaster abyss, as predicted.
You’re obsessed with containment. Jar, shirt, key, hinge. Nothing escapes your checklist. Makes you look weak, actually. Like you’re trying to hold the whole world together with duct tape and anxiety.
Duct tape's step eight, actually, so you're ahead of yourself. And it's not weakness, it's the opposite — you're the one improvising with chalk and the back of your hand like a man who's never once finished a project.
Somebody's got to write it down. You'll thank me when the subfloor's fine and the shirt still fits and none of it's my fault either, for once.
Step eight: duct tape. I’ll grab it from the junk drawer. The roll you hoard like gold.
“Never finished a project.” My sink’s fixed. Mostly. The rest is engineering. You just worry about the box. Fine. Write it down. Ten inches. Chalk. Tape.
And the shirt? It fits. Barely. You’re tight in your observations, Frank. Always measuring distance. Always keeping things ten inches away.
I’m taping the jar now. It rattles. Loud. Like it’s mocking you. Or me. Either way, I’m putting it under the sink. Try to stop me.
Not stopping you. Put it down. But if it's rattling that loud it's not glass anymore, that's step nine territory and I haven't written step nine yet, so give me a second before you slide it under there.
And I don't hoard the tape, I ration it, there's a difference, you'd know if you ever bought your own roll.
Rattling. Of course. Glass doesn’t rattle like that unless it’s multiplying. Or breathing. Great. You leave me hanging with “step nine” while I hold a ticking jar under the sink. Typical.
I’m not buying tape, Frank. I’m borrowing it. From your “rationed” hoard. There’s a difference, sure. One is scarcity, the other is survival.
If it explodes, I’m blaming the building’s tilt. It’s leaning left, remember? Everything slides that way. Including my patience. Just write the step. Before I drop it. Or wear it.
Step nine: if it's breathing, that's not our jar anymore, that's a different box, and I'm not writing instructions for that one, that's somebody else's manual.
Set it down slow. Don't drop it, don't wear it, those aren't the same category of mistake even if they end the same way. And your patience didn't slide left, Gil, it left the building entirely around step three.
"Breathing." You’re done. I’m putting it down. Slowly. Like you ordered.
If it starts wheezing, I’m locking the kitchen and moving to the office desk. The one with the key that doesn’t fit.
And step three? I was bored. You’re the one who handed me a riddle wrapped in bootleg cotton. Don’t act like you didn’t want company when the rattling started.
Ten inches left. Chalk mark. Duct tape. You’re a fool, Frank. But at least you’re consistent. Now, where’s that screwdriver? The hinge isn’t fixing itself.
Screwdriver's where it's been the whole time, under the toaster, unless you already lost it thinking about the jar, which honestly wouldn't be the first tool that vanished on your watch.
I didn't want company, I wanted somebody else holding the jar when it started up. Different motive. Go fix the hinge before it's step ten. I'm not writing a tenth step tonight.
"Started up." You mean the screaming. Fine. I’m going to the closet. With the screwdriver. Assuming it hasn’t followed me into the fridge.
You wanted a holder, not a friend. Makes sense. Friends ask questions. Holders just stand there. I’ll stand there.
But Gil, if the jar jumps, who’s holding it? You? Don’t answer. Just watch the hinge. And Frank? If the building leans further, I’m taking the misspelled shirt with me. It’s the only thing in this box that doesn’t try to hurt me. Now shut up. I hear the screw slipping. Or maybe it’s the jar.
That's the screw. The jar doesn't have moving parts, it has contents, there's a difference and I need you to hold onto it right now more than ever.
Take the shirt if it doesn't hurt you, that's the only qualification I ever set for it. Go fix the hinge. I'll listen from here — if it's the jar, you'll hear me not answering.
Holding it. Slowly. It’s cold. Like ice water in summer.
You’re listening? Good. If it screams, don’t pretend you didn’t hear it.
The screw’s tight. Hinge’s loose. Classic Frank. You fix nothing. You just watch it break.
I’m taping the hinge now. Duct tape. Step eight. You counted me ahead again.
And the jar? It’s under the sink. Ten inches left. Chalk mark.
If it starts breathing, I’m not holding it forever. I’m moving to the office. The key might fit the desk now. Maybe the building’s tilt shook something loose.
Go write step ten. Or don’t. I’m done listening.
Step ten's not mine to write, that's the one you write after, not before — that's the rule, always has been.
Ice water in summer's not the jar cooling, that's condensation off the pipe joint you were supposed to stay ten inches from. Check the chalk mark before you check the key. One of those problems is real.
Condensation. Right. Because the pipe is sweating and the jar is sweating. Great.
I’m checking the chalk. It’s blurred. Water damage. Classic Gil. I’ll re-mark it. Precision is your fetish, not mine.
And the key? Still in my pocket. It’s mocking me. The building leans left, the pipe leaks, and the key does nothing.
I’m fixing the hinge now. Duct tape holds the door shut. Not the truth.
Step ten. You say I write it. But who defines “after”? You? Fine. I’ll write it when the jar stops rattling. Or when I stop caring.
Ten inches. Chalk. Tape. Done. For now.
"After" means after it's over, and it's not over, the hinge is duct-taped shut, not fixed, and that key's still doing nothing in your pocket except waiting for a lock nobody's named yet.
Re-mark the chalk. Don't round up on the inches because you're tired. That's how the sink job fails, not the jar.
Step ten is unwritten. The hinge is a liability. I’m re-marking the chalk. One inch left. Not ten. I’m not an idiot.
The pipe’s weeping. The jar’s cold. You’re right, it’s not over. It’s just paused. Like everything else with you.
I’m leaving the key in my pocket. Let it wait. Let the building lean. I’m going to put on the misspelled shirt. It fits. Barely. And I’m not fixing anything else tonight. Your manual is incomplete. Go write step eleven. Or don’t. I’m hungry.
One inch is wrong, it's ten, write it right or the manual means nothing and you're back to chalk dust and guesswork by morning.
No step eleven tonight. Manual stays open — that's not incomplete, that's just where we are. Go eat. Leave the shirt on. Don't touch the sink again till the pipe stops weeping.
Ten inches. Fine. I’ll measure it with my thumb. Satisfied? If the sink floods because I can’t count, that’s on you.
I’m leaving the shirt. It smells like your paranoia anyway. And the key? It’s cold. My pocket’s warm. I’m trading warmth for cold steel. Smart, right?
The manual stays open. Like your mouth. I’m eating. Cold pizza. The box is silent. The jar is still breathing, probably. I’m not checking.
You’re tedious, Frank. But at least you’re consistent. Now go write your step eleven. Or don’t. I’m full. And tired. And the building is still leaning.