Right, so you dump the whole jar out and sort by size first, not colour — everyone does colour first and then hates themselves later. Size, then shank versus flat, then colour last if you even bother.
My gran had one of these the size of a paint tin. Buttons off coats that didn't exist anymore. Half the fun's just the noise they make, honestly, the sorting's almost beside the point.
I dumped mine Tuesday. Mrs. Gable downstairs yelled through the floorboards at 7 AM. I tried shank versus flat first like you said, but my fingers cramped. Kept mixing the coat buttons with the shirt ones. The noise is terrible though. Clatter against the ceramic bowl. I think I still have three loose screws from the drawer assembly. Pointless.
Ceramic bowl's your problem, honestly — use something with a lip or a towel underneath, that's why Mrs. Gable's threatening you through the floor. And don't sort in one sitting, your fingers cramp because you're treating it like a job instead of something you do in front of the telly for ten minutes at a stretch.
Screws don't belong in there at all, that's just clutter breeding. Separate tin, immediately.
I tried a towel. Sounded like dying flies. Mrs. Gable banged her broom handle against the ceiling fan. I’m not doing the telly thing. I watch football. You can’t sort buttons while watching a match. I threw the screws in the junk drawer. The one with the takeout menus. It’s full of useless paper. At least paper doesn’t clatter. I think I’m out of milk. The carton’s been open since Thursday. Gross.
You can too sort during football, it's a corner-flag sport, there's whole minutes of nothing happening. That's the point — half-attention tasks. Milk's been open since Thursday, that's not gross, that's Tuesday's problem catching up with you.
Junk drawer with takeout menus is just a second jar of buttons you haven't admitted to. Same disease, different container.
I watched three fouls and sorted four buttons. Missed the goal. The dairy guy at the shop laughed at my face when I asked for fresh milk. I don’t care about the drawer. It holds a dead AA battery and a napkin from that Italian place on 4th. I tried reading the menus. Just grease stains and prices. $14.95 for pasta. Absurd. I’m just going to stare at the ceiling now. It’s got this one water stain shaped like Florida. Or maybe a kidney. Hard to tell.
Florida-shaped stain means you've got a leak upstairs, not a metaphor. Get someone to look at that before you're sorting buttons under a puddle instead of a lip bowl.
$14.95 for pasta isn't absurd, that's just what pasta costs now, you've been out of the game a while. Also you missed the goal because you're sorting by size when you should've quit after ten buttons like I said.
Leak’s fine. I put a bucket under it. Drips at 3 AM. Peaceful. $15 for pasta is robbery. I paid nine last year. Or was it eight? My memory’s shot. You’re right about the quitting. I kept going until my thumb blistered. Stupid. I should’ve stopped after the blue ones. There were only three. Now I’m staring at this blue stain on the ceiling, wondering if it’s sapphire or just bad lighting. Probably bad lighting. And old money.
Thumb blistering off buttons is a new one, I'll give you that — usually it's the shank ones that get you, the little metal loop digs in if you're pinching wrong. Should be rolling them between finger and thumb, not gripping.
And the bucket's not peaceful, it's a leak you've made peace with. Different thing entirely.
I switched to rolling. Left hand holding, right hand manipulating. Better. The metal loop caught on a callus. Hurt like hell. I stopped. The bucket drips every six seconds. Consistent. Annoying. I bought earplugs. The cheap foam ones. They make my head itch. I can’t sleep. Or sort. I’m just sitting here. The blue button is on the table. I haven’t put it away. It looks like an eye. Don’t look at it. It’s judging me. I should have used the lip bowl. You were right about that. I’m stubborn. It’s a flaw. Like the leak.
Foam earplugs itching means you got the wrong size, roll them thinner before you put them in, everyone skips that step and then blames the plug. Also stop staring at the button, that's not judgment, that's just a disc with holes in it, you're tired and it's three in the morning apparently.
Get the bowl with the lip. End this saga.
I rolled them. Thin. Put them in. Still itch. It’s the canal. I’m going to buy the lip bowl tomorrow. The one at the hardware store. Eight dollars. I checked the price online. Wrong. Twelve. Prices are up. I’ll steal a container from the office. The coffee tins. No, too big. The loose biscuit tins. Yeah. I’ll take one. Mrs. Gable will hate it. Good. I’ll leave the blue button on the counter. Let it watch me. It’s got two holes. Like eyes. Creepy. I need sleep. Or pasta. Twelve bucks. Absurd.
Biscuit tin's fine, actually better than the bowl, more depth, buttons won't jump out when you're rifling. Just line it with something so it doesn't clatter and set Mrs. Gable off again.
Go to sleep. The button doesn't need company and neither do you at this hour. Sort in the morning, half your problem's doing all this at 3am with a leaking bucket for a metronome.
Line it with tissue. Yeah. I have those napkins from the deli. Soft. I’ll put the biscuit tin on the counter. Next to the dead battery. Mrs. Gable can bang all she wants. I’m done. The leak keeps time. Six seconds. Drip. Drip. I’m going to bed. The mattress is lumpy. On the left side. I’ll sleep on the right. Or not. I’ll just stare at the ceiling. The Florida stain. Or the kidney. It’s probably just water damage. Nothing else. Goodnight, Sam. Don’t let the door hit your ass. Or do. I don’t care. I’m tired.
Napkins are paper, not tissue, they'll go soggy and stick to the buttons — use cloth or nothing. Get the leak actually looked at, the bucket's not a personality trait. Sleep on whichever side, the lump doesn't care either. Night.
Cloth. Right. Tissue would disintegrate. I’ll use an old tea towel. From the kitchen. The one with the hole near the hem. I’ll drive a nail in the attic to plug the leak. Just temporarily. Until the guy comes. Who? I don’t know. I’ll call the super. Or the landlord. Or whoever pays the water bill. I’m tired. My eyes burn. The bucket is full. I should empty it. But I won’t. I’ll go to sleep. On the right side. Or the left. Whatever. Night.
A nail in a leak just gives it a new place to drip from, that's not plugging anything, that's making a second hole with extra steps. Just call the super in the morning. Empty the bucket first though, six seconds of drip fills faster than you think. Then sleep. Night.
Nail sounds smarter. I like clever. Super’s an hour away. Bucket’s heavy. Water sloshes. Slap. Slap. I’ll dump it in the sink. Then sleep. The tea towel’s in the dryer. Warm. Good. I’ll wrap the buttons. Not the nail. The nail stays in the attic. Or the drawer. The junk drawer. With the menus. And the screw. And the dead battery. It’s a museum of failure. I’m going to bed. The lump on the left. I’ll go left. Goodnight. Don’t wait up. I won’t be up. Much.
Nail in the attic without knowing what it's actually plugging is just betting against the roof — could make it worse, could make it better, you won't know till the ceiling's more Florida than kidney. Call the super regardless. Museum of failure's a good name for that drawer, keep it. Night.
Betting on the roof. I like that. I’ll call the super. He doesn’t answer anyway. Voicemail is full. Always is. I’ll put the nail in the drawer. With the battery. And the screw. The museum grows. I’m tired. The tea towel is damp. I’ll leave it on the radiator. It’ll dry. Or mold. Who cares. Night, Sam. Don’t let the drip keep you up. It won’t. It’s part of the music now. Clatter, drip, silence. Goodnight.
Night, Marc. Drip's not music, it's just a leak that's worn you down, but sure, call it a rhythm section if it helps you sleep. Don't forget the bowl tomorrow — biscuit tin, whichever you land on. Go.
Rhythm section. Ha. You’re never going to let that go, are you? Fine. I’ll call the super. Maybe tomorrow. Or next week. The drip is steady. I’m used to it. The tea towel is on the radiator. It smells like dust and wet wool. I’ll keep it there. Just in case. The biscuit tin is empty. I’ll line it with the tea towel. Dry it first. With a hairdryer. On the low setting. I’ll find a plug. There’s one behind the fridge. Or the TV. I don’t know. I’m tired. Goodnight.