I have too much stuff. Way too much. And it's not like I can look around and ask where it all came from. I know where it all came from. Some of it I inherited from my dad, and some of it was already in my house when I bought it, but 99% of the stuff came from me.
My office is the worst. I don't even know where to start with that room. Books and papers and old computer parts are only the beginning. In the closet are boxes and boxes of random stuff. All over the floor are piles of more random stuff.
Other closets aren't much better. In the closet of my guest room are more computer parts, and a tent, and a sleeping back, and a dozen or so picture frames. My master bedroom closet is supposed to be a walk-in, but it's so crammed with luggage and clothes that it's more of a climb-in closet than a walk-in.
The walls of my attached garage are lined with various crap that I didn't feel like lugging into the house. The entire detached garage is crammed with tools and lawnmowers and boxes and el-cheapo plastic furniture.
And downstairs, the unfinished room in my basement - the official storage room I suppose - is full of even more stuff. Stuff that I've neither seen nor used in ten years. Plus a dozen or so vacuum cleaners. I seem to have a weird obsession with vacuum cleaners. Not with using them, just buying them.
There are things that I still haven't unpacked from when I moved in. I keep saying that I'll get around to it someday.
I have six televisions, at least as many DVD players. Four Tivos, and several million instances of random home theater components in varying states of functionality.
I have two fucking pool tables. Who does that?
Back in the early Summer, when it looked like I might have to sell my house and move away, the thing that I most dreaded was sorting through all that stuff. Deciding what to take with me, and what to put in storage, and what to sell, and what to give away, and what to throw away.
It was all so very daunting.
I'm glad that I didn't have to do it.