palace of winds

Oh, sure. At first it seemed like a good idea.

At first it was fun. Who doesn’t like to cut shit up? Who doesn’t like it better if there’s a machine to cut the shit up in small strips for you, and all you have to do is feed the stuff in and watch the destruction?

At first I didn’t live below it full-time.

At first no one was obsessed with shredding things.

Now, though.

You know how really obnoxious songs have this way of getting in your head, and you hear like two lines of them over and over again all day? The whir/grind of the paper shredder’s that way for me. Oh, it’s not at all musical. There’s nothing about it that isn’t monotonous and obnoxious. But it stays. Even now I can hear it, and believe me the shredder’s not going.

I know because if it were going it would be twenty times louder, and it would make my speakers buzz. Whether they’re on or off.

The thing that really gets me, though? How someone might spend almost an hour shredding old checks. I mean, yeah, if someone gets hold of an old check of yours they have your signature and your bank number and stuff. And people can do pretty shitty things, and some people are assholes. But you know where else these people can get your bank number and signature?

If you write them a check.

I mean, god. At least burn them if you’re that paranoid. Make something pretty and flamey out of the papertrail dating back to the 80s. Personally, if I have something I’m too lazy to shred but wouldn’t want people just rifling through, I put it in the kitchen garbage and make sure something gooey and unpleasant gets on it. Deterrent enough.