It gets worse. Ohio is also a place with a number of shelves that features objects the sight of which upsets me for reasons that are difficult to explain and therefore understand. I am not mad at the objects for being on the shelves, instead I am bothered rather tremendously by the simple fact they are existing in Ohio, when in fact it seems like they ought to be somewhere else. There are two shoeboxes and one sketchbook especially responsible for this mental unrest, but it’s unclear at this point what should be done. Last year I took the precautionary measure of cutting out all the words I ever wrote in the sketchbook.
I will now offer evidence that suggests that Ohio might not be a terrible place. My parents live here, despite the fact that their lives seem to be defined by extreme silence, and take place in a town in which it is unclear whether or not they actually know anyone despite having been here for two years.
Finally, Ohio provided me the adventure of dealing with a very scared mouse that had ensconced itself pretty securely in an area near the house’s kitchen. The story about this mouse ends with it being captured in a dustpan before being released outside, where it was in all likelihood devoured by an owl. The blood is not on my hands, the blood is on Mother Nature's hands and also the owl's, but owls do not have hands.
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