moving piles

One of my many fears is that I'm going to end up a hoarder. Not of cats or rabbits (goddess forbid), but of stuff. You know those people that show up in the weird news once a year or so, who have to be rescued from like a second story window because you can't use the front door anymore for all the boxes and crates blocking the way.

I am such a pack rat. I've gotten much better at getting rid of stuff over the last couple of years, but still. I actually had to call Samantha this morning and ask her what I should do with this pile of ripped up cargo pants and jeans I had been moving around all morning. You would think I was living in the Depression. I think...'I'll use the remaining good fabric for patches!' Except, I can't sew. In fact, I am not creatively crafty in any way, shape or form...I can barely wield a glue stick...so it makes the idea of 'hey I can use this for...' all the more ridiculous. I probably did live during the Depression, but died because I couldn't make do with a pound of flour, some baling wire and, I don't know, a yardstick.

But you know, I'll probably survive the apocalypse in this life, but no one will be able to find me because I'll be buried under boxes of broken lamps, walkmans and assorted shattered crockery.

Sam told me to throw away the clothes. They're sitting on the top of the stairs right now in a sad little pile of wanton disregard. Forgive me.