I was cleaning my apartment yesterday and I found a dustball. As conditioned, I walked over to the garbage and threw it away. Then, moments later, I sat on the floor of my apartment, starring at the dustball, musing into the particles that were once part of my life. I wondered: whose hair is that, Amy or Julia or Guinnevere, and do they know it's missing? I wondered: maybe some of that dust is skinflakes from some stranger on the subway who had a baby yesterday, or entered rehab, or learned how to masturbate, or finished a dissertation, or won an award for best grandpa and got a coffee mug with his initials on it? I thought: it's not just a dustball, it's a collection of memories - it's life. I thought again: why throw this away when i could sell it to someone on craigslist who might either not have any dustballs of their own for whatever reason or to a serious dustball collector.
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It's a really really pretty dustball, the kind you might see floating by and wink at you or even on display in a museum one day. I am not predicting any such fame for this particular dustball. That would be wildly foolish and truly uncharacteristic of me. I will say that this dustball, of which I have not yet named (in hopes of a future owner who will do the honor), can easily be placed in a coatpocket or small purse. It is waterproof, loves to dance salsa, able to take long walks without complaining or getting tired, and will listen to you when you think all your friends are too consumed with the velocity of their own damn lives. This dustball will never lie, never fake an orgasm, and never ever tell you that those black pants you love make you look fat. If you're patient, it will tell you stories about the good times and remind you that no matter how bad it gets, you will never be alone as long as you share your life with dust.
Measurements: 1" by 3", 0.09 ounces, muilt-colored (predominantly greyish).