self-intervention
I know I am almost a hoarder, at least. I have drawers in my house, specific drawers, that if you were to ask me what they were called, or what was in them I would say “junk drawers.” The name alone implies that I acknowledge that I currently have in my possession a variety of items that I put in the category of “things that are unnecessary to my life,” and instead of getting rid of them by selling them, donating them, or throwing them away, I just keep them in a drawer in my house for no reason.
I noticed one day that I was starting to throw a variety of junk into my underwear drawer (a journal, a TollTag bill, a pair of earbuds from when iPhones had aux ports, and my passport). Mind you, I already have a junk drawer. As despicable as it may be, I at least have a place that I’ve designated for just this sort of miscellany, and here I am, throwing it in with the unmatched socks and boxer briefs (boxer briefs, for the equal parts freedom and security provided to the male nethers).
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I realized, then, that “junk” wasn’t just the trivial trinketry that tends to accrue over the course of the weekly grind, but rather a living, malevolent biomass hellbent on spreading over the breadth of my 600 square feet of living space. Left to its devices, it would spread from drawer to drawer until it interspersed with the dishes, laundry, pantry, bookshelves… hell, I’m not even sure if the fridge would be safe. Before you know it, I’d be getting confronted in my own living room by my entire extended family and an A&E film crew.
Unfortunately this unholy cretin, I have the uncanny ability to worry about this sort of thing until a doctor prescribes me medication, so I stopped it right in its tracks. I took the junk out of the “drawers” drawer and put it back in the junk drawer, where it belongs.
The moral of this story, kids? I need to get out more.
