How To Throw Something Away Without Your Partner Fishing It Out Of The Trash (A Counting Story)

When your partner refuses to get rid of his stretched-out t-shirt, put it directly in the trash bin outside.

When the t-shirt reappears inside, take it and the broken clock your partner said he would fix two years ago, and stick it in your neighbor’s garbage, preferably under an open jar of moldy tomato sauce and used diapers.

When both items turn up again, take them and the anatomically-correct Jesus your partner got from his old college buddy, and bury all three in a cemetery.

When you find out your partner dug up those three items, stick them and the two-week old lasagna your partner says is still good in a rocket headed to Mars with Gayle King and the next Blue Origin space crew.

When all four items turn up back on earth, grab them as well as your partner’s Gary Busey garden gnome, and pay a murderer to leave them at the scene of his next crime. Your husband won’t be able to get them back if they’re taken into evidence.

When the five items materialize again because your partner has a friend at the police station, pack them along with his childhood aquarium which has remained empty for fifteen years, and sneak them onto a norovirus-riddled cruise ship set for Alaska.

When all six items somehow return home, throw them in a bag with the mushroom growing kit your partner thought would change his life but is currently sitting in your garage, unopened. Hand the bag to the monster who terrorized a waste refinement center in an early episode of The X Files.

When those seven things end up in your garage, haul them outside along with the autographed poster of Diddy your partner thinks will be worth money someday. Then give them to the murderer who got off on a technicality because of missing evidence. After explaining to him that he still owes you, suggest he try the same plan as before with a different target, obviously not you.

When the eight items show up again, set them and your partner’s collection of canned meats inside a pentagram you drew on the sidewalk. Then summon a witch who can convince Hades to store your husband’s stuff in Hell where all that junk belongs.

When all nine things end up at your house, box them up along with the old trumpet your partner never learned to play but still likes to “jam” on. Threaten the murderer, explaining that if he doesn’t find a new victim soon, you won’t be happy. When he narrows his eyes at you and says, “I think I’ve got one now,” don’t be worried.

When those ten items reappear back home, grab them as well as the Hemingway novel your partner really wants you to read and go back in time. Find the Biosphere in Arizona and smuggle those things into the dome before it’s sealed shut.

When you find those eleven items in your house again, take them and your partner’s never-worn freaky toe shoes and murder the murderer. Leave all that stuff at the scene of the crime as evidence. A life sentence will be worth it if it means you’re finally rid of the Gary Busey garden gnome.

When you return home after your trial and see all twelve things in front of your house, wonder if you murdered the wrong person. Before you do anything drastic, consider settling the score by prominently displaying something of yours that your partner has been trying to throw away but you keep fishing out of the trash.

Perhaps your erotic painting of Jeff Goldblum.