Out of the closet, all of my shit (read: collectibles and assorted whatnots) has come out of the storage closet. It was approximately 20 boxes. 20 boxes of which were once attacked by rats. I was devastated when it happened some odd years ago, I went through the majority of the boxes back then just to survey the damage and followed it up with throwing 2 boxes of DeCon in the storage closet and left it that way. A couple of earthquakes and some more rat damage later, the job is almost done.
The volume of stuffed trashed was about 5 garbage bags, as we reached the lowest sitting boxes, things got a bit more gruesome. A dead rat was found in one of the boxes. He set up a nice house, made a nice nest out of a little baby quilt, nibbled the life out of a once cool, now chewed lamp (trashed) and he had a stash of DeCon in the corner of the box. Elizabeth is one hard ass worker, the main reason I hired her at the bookstore and the main reason I hired her for this heinous project. She picked up the dead rat and trashed it immediately without hesitation, where as I went in gag and dry heave mode for about a half hour. That alone would have stopped me as it did years ago, but that didn't stop Elizabeth, we sorted cleaned and organized until midnight. She's relentless. I'm sore as fuck and she's coming over tonight to work some more as there are boxes throughout my living room waiting to be dealt with. I hurt.
My storage space is just like anyone's attic, the decades of memories, some bad, most good. It's a wild ride to say the least and I'm so achey right now, I'd love to call Elizabeth and say, "let's resume this next week, I'm old and tired", but, I won't, I'll follow through, because Elizabeth has been hired to do a job and damn if she isn't going to finish it. Damnit, lol, I hurt.