Boxes, boxes everywhere. Boxes, boxes stacked in the air. Boxes, boxes everywhere.
Yes, I just wrote a poem about boxes. A very bad poem, but a poem nonetheless. I think it’s indicative of my fragile state of mind that I’ve resorted to coming up with terrible rhymes. You try living in a fort of boxes and tell me how you fare.
How do I have this much stuff? I mean really, we have an absurd amount o’ crap between the two of us. And yet, somehow, I can’t make myself part with much of it. Yes, I’ve carted over about three boxes full of bent pots and pans, powdered sugar, some once-nice purses now on their last legs and random articles of clothing to my sister’s (she’s a lucky gal, racking up on all these gems), and yet somehow, about 47 piles of miscellany remain. I mean, how am I supposed to part with those college textbooks with the little yellow “buy used, it’s cheaper” tags affixed to them and the odd-shaped baking dish that just might come in handy one day and the letters I’ve been collecting since, oh, fifth grade or so. That’s asking too much of a person. Dumpster, you can have my pants that don’t fit anymore, my heels that were stylish circa 1996 and my key chain collection, but by golly, I’m putting my foot down about some things. Okay, most things. Damnit, don’t judge me, I might find a use for that mangled piece of lamp some day.