Now that I have your attention . . . I don't think I've ever publicly admitted that I hate box. More appropriately, I hate boxes. You may have already assumed this because, quite honestly, who in their right mind likes boxes? Not that I'm in my right mind, but you get the idea. Boxes are stifling. Boxes take up space. Boxes often times indicate a move of some sort is taking place, and there ain't nothing fun or exciting about moving! Boxes also tend to trap things: clothes, documents, people. And who—in any mindset—wants to feel trapped? Besides, trying to put me into a box is moot. . . .
This morning, I was woken up by what I thought was a neighbor's loud, ruthless hammering. Bam, bam, bam! However, after the sound continued for a solid ten minutes, I realized that the noise couldn't possibly be from someone hammering the wall—there'd be no wall left. Once the sleepy haze evaporated from my brain, I was able to put two and two together. Last night, San Diego received a rainstorm. What was disturbing me was the aftermath of that storm: rain falling from the gutters. Drip, drip, drip! Incessant, painful, infuriating. Now, the old me would have screamed and cussed, pulled . . .