Do you ever wonder what an archaeologist digging up your stuff would make of you? I was thinking that tonight. I wonder if an archaeologist would notice I arranged my dishes by color order within type. I worked really hard on it. They certainly won't know the stories behind our things, that Jonathan's friend painted that and we bought those on our honeymoon. And what if I got an intern archaeologist for my shoes, who took the lazy way out and only took plaster casts of my feet from one pair and thus didn't notice that my shoes are actually two sizes, pre-Meggie and post-Meggie? How dare he miss something like that??
About at that point in my mental processes, I decided that hopefully there won't be an archaeologist for this apartment, because I mean to move out before I die. Or get, I don't know, covered by a volcano. Which is of course a form of dying.
It's probably just as well my legacy is with God. He even notices stray hairs. I apparently can't trust academia to do the thing right.
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