In order to register for a phlebotomist training, I am asked to provide two things:
1. Proof that I am 18 years old or older.
(I know lyrics to every ROXETTE song ever and also the entirety of The Last Unicorn - which turned 40 yesterday - how much more proof do you need?!)
2. My high school diploma, or equivalent.
Oh my. That is a document from 1999 which no one has asked for since.
I moved house four times during the pandemic, losing every last shred memory of where my things are now. I can recall where things were in 2012, and where I kept things in my college apartment, and even the year I lived in California, I recall the layout and location of most of my meager worldly possessions.
Two points to minimalism.
Before moving, and indeed, after evacuating my former home due to The Waldo Canyon Fire, I consolidated the really, really important things into one box. That box contains my (very old and outdated) will, the decree of my divorce, and the imprint of my teeth that was used to make my night guard, which prevents me from nightly destruction at the behest of my own anxiety. I paid four hundred dollars for that mold, and another two for the forming and shaping of the guard which offers me no discernible benefit, but it’s unique irreplaceability earned it a spot.
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