My parents are right; I live in a pit. A pit I’ve been working on halfheartedly to tidy all day, and yet it looks almost worse than when I started. When did I accumulate so much stuff, I ask you? I mean, in comparison to Aaron “I Have A Gift-wrapping Room In My House” Spelling or Nicholas “I Own Two Islands” Cage, my living quarters don’t seem so terrible, but when you switch out a laughable Hollywood star for a kid in Somalia it’s pretty horrific how much I own. So parents and kids agree: what a good time of year for a thorough closet survey and springtime trip to the community center!
God, what a packrat. Look at that cheetah-print chest sitting under all my commemorative T-shirts; it’s all faded and there’s a dent and the hinges don’t work so great anymore, not that they ever did much, and it’s followed me all the way to this house from the last one so you’d know it’s old even if I hadn’t described it. Not to mention it’s cheetah print. And yet it’s still crammed with things, themselves probably dating from years ago. Oh, and those unicorn stickers I taped (“Now they will double-stick!”) to the side of my headboard when I was five? Yeah… not such an awesome idea, in retrospect.