The Thrill of Destruction

I collect material goods because they are useless and I itch to destroy them. I consider all possessions as dross and am smugly jubilant when they are returned to ashes as all things must. The only certain thing in life is destruction. Everything else is on the verge of it.

Today I watched calmly from 2 feet away as my toddler climbed onto the kitchen table, stood on her tip toes to reach the crystal shelf, and flung a $400 Tiffany's wedding present to the ground. Where, as I now understand, it can rot. As the splendid bowl bounced unharmed on the plushy carpet, I was surprised to recognize my feelings of disappointment that it was still intact. It hit me that I have adopted an attitude of disgust for most of my belongings due to the unstoppable force of the toddler in my life. Every item in my house is the eventual target of Pixie's blood lust - who am I to to fight the inevitable? When she first became mobile last year, I resisted. My china migrated farther up the walls and the books remained behind humorless glass cabinets. But Pixie is smarter than the average goldfish and implemented "tools" (a sign of intelligence) to achieve maximum destruction. The most 2-dimensional of items is turned into a step stool and she can bludgeon with the best of them with her pink sippy cup.

And one year later I find myself actually hoping that she will destroy every single thing I own. What right does a $400 crystal bowl have to exist in this world anyways? I am too uptight to even put Christmas chocolates inside because I fear it is "beneath the bowl." So it sits haughtily on my shelf like an empress commanding dusting and good lighting even though it fills no earthly purpose. Last month another $300 wedding present was shattered into a million pieces. I picked through the gleaming shards with satisfaction, relieved that I would never waste another moment's allegiance to it. I can almost taste the glee of the French people when they beheaded Marie. There's something so supremely satisfying about a revolution.

Pixie now has free reign of the apartment. I lie on the couch while she roams free through the house choosing at random which of our possessions will no longer plauge our lives. An imperceptible smile flits across my face with each crash. I'm thinking of getting Pixie a baseball bat for Christmas this year.