I habitually break my reading glasses by either stepping or sitting on them.  So I stocked up on a bunch of cheap pairs at the start of the Covid pandemic, because I am totally not down with any of that “Time Enough At Last” horseshit.

I even fell into the habit of tossing the broken pairs into the same drawer, in hoarder-like fashion.  (Am I supposed to repair them someday, maybe?  Glasses repair is not really a thing with me.)

Anyway, that drawer has reached the point where I look like a serial killer who bludgeons nerdy, frugal, fashion-blind men over the head and then takes their glasses as trophies — like some pathetic riff on the alien “Predator” (1987).

I need to leave a note in that drawer to exonerate myself to the police — in case I die in my sleep or something.