I needed the phone number of a long-ago friend, which meant I had to delve into The Box. It's a plastic file box in which I keep all kinds of old papers, mainly financial, but there's some personal stuff scattered in there too. Letters, notes, photos, what have you. For ten years I've been meaning to organize its contents. I don't like opening it because I never know when I'm going to come across something that sends me spiraling into grim nostalgia or wrenching reminiscence. It's an emotional crapshoot every time, it could be wonderful and cathartic or miserable and debilitating. One thing it always is is distracting. Stupid feelings! There I am, innocently looking at 1997 tax forms, when all of a sudden I find a picture of me with my mother when I was ten, at which point I can more or less kiss the afternoon goodbye.

Today, looking for that phone number of someone who probably doesn't even like me anymore, or worse, doesn't remember me, I found a note from J to me, scribbled on the back of a pizza coupon. "Went to the store, you were asleep. Back soon!" That alone caused emotion to rise in me like expired clam dip. What you really meant, J, was something along the lines of "Went to the store, back soon, and in six and half years I'll be dumping your sorry ass!" Oh the cruel irony of such a note! Such a lacerating discovery will surely find me abed for the rest of the day!

I've hit upon a tactic that will prevent any further damage to my quivering sensibilities, however. I'm going to lock all such documents away and make access to them restricted, requiring formal requests for their release. The filing of a proper FOIA application will get the process underway, and any material made available by such methods will of course be heavily redacted. In this way I can put up sufficient obstacles to thwart the unnecessary and counterproductive triggering of any memories I may not wish to exercise.