The year is 1999. My sister Chelly is 12 years old. (I am…roughly six and a half years older. Still am.) Her assignment in middle school ceramics class? Make a mug. But give it a face. Some personality. Maybe a tetch of creepiness?
And oh, how she delivered.
The mustache, the eyeballs, the world weary sentiment that reads: Just One Of Those Days. (Which is hilarious on many levels, but especially when you think about how it came from the hand of a hopefully non-world weary sixth grader. I half wonder if she almost went with the idea to create a kitten mug, you know, just “hanging in there.”)
Now, years later, for reasons not entirely clear to me- the thing is in my possession. (I hear my other two sisters chiming in that I stole it or some other shenanigans, but here is my defense that would hold up in a court of law: Did you look at the picture? That thing is un-stealable.)
It was unearthed this past weekend in a major kitchen storage overhaul (which resulted in some embarrassing purging of non-critical “kitchen” items…but more on that story later). What follows is the actual, unedited text message conversation between my sister and me:
Keely: {sends picture of mug} Your handiwork, I believe?
Chelly: …I know it was made as a gift for Dad…but who could want that?
Keely: Maybe someone who’s having “just one of those days?”
{Moments later.}
Keely: I am including a special closeup, in case you missed the completely creeptacular stoned-out eyeballs.
Chelly: It’s actually the worst thing ever made.
Keely: And doesn’t that warrant preservation?
Chelly: It warrants a bonfire and some sort of ritual involving sage.
{A few minutes pass.}
Keely: So…no? You don’t want it?
Chelly: …Is it that my texts appear to subliminally WANT the cup?
Keely: I mean, yeah.
***
And at press time, people, the thing is still in my house. Leading me to [obviously] believe that it was meant for one of you. That’s right. One of you is about to be REWARDED. Rewarded handsomely. Want it? (What a stupid question- OF COURSE YOU DO.) Comment below and tell me why. That’s all. No hoops. No signups or forwards or chain letters. Just…please explain to me why you’re so dazzlingly cool and/or decor-challenged.
So the next time you’re having One Of Those Days, it’ll be like I’m right there with you. Nodding empathetically. Agreeing wholeheartedly.
And staring at you with my bulbous and haunting discotheque-era features.
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