In some small way,

I hate scrapbookers. I hate people who happily catalogue the past with brightly colored paper and glue sticks.

Partially, I simply do not understand the urge to do what they do. It goes beyond not spending hours laboring over cute little cut-outs and selecting just the right combinations of patterned and solid paper.

Mostly though, my disagreement with scrapbookers is because I specialize in the end. I am so good at ending relationships, friendships, conflicts, and pretty much anything I set my mind to. And when it's over, I have a story. Inevitably, there's a story.

For example, how about the major blow-out that signaled the death of a seven-year-long friendship? Or that horrendous break-up that couldn't possibly have been any worse? Or that other horrible break-up that could have been worse, but not by much? Or any of those numerous friendships that ended as uneventfully as a dull phone call?

I have my stories. I can tell them. But I would never want to write them in glittery markers among stenciled patterns on acid-free paper.

I specialize in the end. I don't celebrate it.