I walked out of the house to find a mysterious box wrapped in plastic bags on my front porch.
I had been left there during the night or in the wee hours.
I went to open it and then stopped, with visions of some sort of shit bomb dancing through my head.
There was about a 50/50 chance of that box being a good thing.
I left it there. And then I did what any wimpy 39-year-old woman would do. I called my dad and made him drive over (we live in the same neighborhood) and open it.
Oh yes, I did. I'm that pitiful.
Turns out it was a box full of pictures my aunt found in my grandma's house (she's moved into assisted living--this is not McDonalds grandma) and wanted me to have.
But it COULD HAVE been a shit bomb.
Sigh.
I need to reexamine my life.
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