I must confess, a few weeks ago I had an epiphany.

(Yes, I'm still capable of experiencing those every now and again).

I realized that as time passed, I'd compiled a unique collection of priceless objects, inanimate objects, unseen by the human eye over the years.

This collection cannot be measured by card collectors' "mint condition" or the like. It cannot be valued any differently by "year it first came out." And it has no aesthetic beauty like say paintings, seashells or even shoes (for the Imelda Marcos types out there).

Nope.

To say this collection is worth even a treasure full of lifetime memories is laughable when you stop and think about what it is I had acquired and possessed.

Wanna know what "my time-honored collection" is?

It's called my bitterness box.

Yes, you heard it here and you heard it from me.

Damn, I loved that box. I held it extremely close to my heart. And no one -- and I mean no one -- could touch or address the collection unless I granted authorization.

Among those collectibles...

Let's start with my father, who once punched and kicked me for trying to squeeze my ten-speed through the garage and accidentally scratched his car -- back in the day. That was probably worse than the bloody mouth he gave me when I was four after I interrupted him and his drunk buddies as they were deep in their navy conversation.

Yeah Dad, you were my first to put in da box and boy were you worth a lot early in my life.

But Mom doesn't get off scott-free either. Between telling me "I told you so" as I was getting the wind knocked out of me instead of throwing me a lifeline. Thanks for the help, Mommy Dearest. Oh, and lets not forget the quadrillion sermons of looking decent by having short hair-wearing button down or polo shirts-etc and that God honors that more than helping the poor and needy, blah-blah-blah-blah-blah. Talk about priceless.

Oh, and let me dust off this pack of self-righteous Christians over the years who proclaim that you have to speak loudly in tongues at a public eatery and market salvation through soul-winning tracts at malls to gain God's favor. Lest we forget the "high-fallutin' our excrement don't stinketh/too heavenly minded no earthly good mentality/don't do what I do do what I preach" persona. And how about the "I can treat you any way I want because I have a higher position than you and make more money than you so God likes me better" attitude.

Talk about a treasure. I think that might be my most valuable asset out of all these collectibles.

You know, there's also a place for elitist bee-yotch-es who either dumped me, stood me up, or denigrated me... esp the girl whose initials were LT who called me ugly -- and who now looks fugly herself while I've surpassed her in the marketability category. I got your ugly right here. And I guess you can be classified as mint condition.

Not sure what has greater value in my box - the mental, the emotional, the psychological, or the physical scars. Hell, if I had the time, I'd make a list and rank them in order of impact in my life.

But you know what, I'm not gonna. I mean, why bother. There were other recently acquired collectibles that I won't even mention, and you wanna know why?

Because they're no longer part of my collection.

And you know what, neither is Dad, Mom, the self-righteous losers, and da elitist bee-yotches.

You see, the other day -- in fact it was two Thursdays ago -- I walked up the mountain of my mind and soul and I imagined a cool exhilirating breeze blow through... and I virtually opened that collection box, turned it upside down, and emptied the contents, along with years and years and years of unwanted treasures that packed that container over time.

A type of fatigue had set in.

I got so tired of carrying and clutching that box around with death-grip intensity, and it exhausted me to take the time to maintain and expand that collection -- to the point that it got really nerve-wracking.

And you know what?

When I opened, emptied, and set 'em all free, I felt refreshed.

Now, I'm working one day at a time to keep myself from slipping back into that old "pack rat mentality."

It's always something, ain't it?