chipped tea-cups

I am a hoarder. Probably not to the TLC-special extreme, but the potential is definitely there.

After procrastinating for a week, I cleaned out my room and unpacked from school. I emptied my closet and my bookshelves. I went through stacks of notebooks and papers from high school and my first two years of college. I found boxes under my bed filled with ticket stubs and playbills. There are pictures and friendship bracelets, birthday cards dating back to 2005 (the rest are probably in a box on the top shelf of my closet) and an arm from a stuffed bear that Beckie and I won from a claw machine and decided to “share” by ripping its arms off. I found memories I wish I hadn’t, but I also got to reminisce. I didn’t throw away as much as I should have. I have a bad memory and I think it’s nice to keep small souvenirs of important life events.

This is where it starts. A ticket stub here, a newspaper clipping there. Then, before you know it, I’m going to start wearing a life-alert bracelet just in case mountains of books avalanche, knocking me over into a pile of dirty stuffed animals, before a box of fabric does me in: making it impossible to see daylight again.

I read an article about an elderly man who was trapped inside his own home. His out-of-control quantity of meaningless garbage fell on top of him. His negligent family didn’t start looking for him for six days. That will be me.

My grandfather likes to stop at garage sales. He buys things regardless of whether or not he needs them or likes them. The less useful an item is, the more desirable it is: island of misfit toys complex, if that’s a thing. This is probably genetic. I should seek preemptive help.