I decide I'm going to get rid of 90% of my stuff. That's the only way out of this mess -- to do it mathematically. I readjust for uninflation. I decide I'm going to give away 80% of my stuff and throw away 10% of my stuff, because there's no way a minimum of 10% of my life isn't junk. I divide my life into three parts: poor people stuff, garbage, and mine. The people who take poor people stuff can't come for a week and then only all at once, so I have to pull out all the poor people stuff, put it in bags and boxes all lined up in neat rows, and look at it. The garbage goes out bit by bit to not make the other people in the building mad. There are only so many garbage cans in the world, and we only have three. I sneak garbage out daily. The day the poor people collectors come, they show up at the door, and there are only two of them, and I outweigh each one of them. There is a skinny white older guy and a young black guy. The young guy has something either written on his arm or tattooed on his arm that involves the word GOD, which, for some reason, I think says, GOD'S ARM, and I keep meaning to check and see what it says, but I keep forgetting because the white guy keeps saying stuff like, we're not movers, and pointing at large pieces of furniture and saying, we can't take that. I'm not looking for a fight from people who take poor people stuff, so I say fine, take what you can. I think I'm pretty great for doing this, not only giving all this stuff to poor people that I will never meet, but for tolerating the angry skinny white guy sweating like a dog who doesn't want my poor people stuff anyway. Eventually, the skinny old white guy goes and hides in the truck, and I realize the only way I'm getting out of here is if I help the black guy, so I do. After a while, I tell the skinny old white guy to get out of the truck and help us, please, so he does, sort of. Finally, everything is in the truck, we're all sweating like dogs, and they have taken everything but the bed frame which is bolted to the headboard, a six-foot long sofa the color of a sorry turd, and a lamp that I need because otherwise there will be no light. The next day, a special delivery truck comes and takes all the garbage I left at the curb. I sit on the floor and think, I am going out the same way I came in.
Monday, August 30, 2010
90%
I decide I'm going to get rid of 90% of my stuff. That's the only way out of this mess -- to do it mathematically. I readjust for uninflation. I decide I'm going to give away 80% of my stuff and throw away 10% of my stuff, because there's no way a minimum of 10% of my life isn't junk. I divide my life into three parts: poor people stuff, garbage, and mine. The people who take poor people stuff can't come for a week and then only all at once, so I have to pull out all the poor people stuff, put it in bags and boxes all lined up in neat rows, and look at it. The garbage goes out bit by bit to not make the other people in the building mad. There are only so many garbage cans in the world, and we only have three. I sneak garbage out daily. The day the poor people collectors come, they show up at the door, and there are only two of them, and I outweigh each one of them. There is a skinny white older guy and a young black guy. The young guy has something either written on his arm or tattooed on his arm that involves the word GOD, which, for some reason, I think says, GOD'S ARM, and I keep meaning to check and see what it says, but I keep forgetting because the white guy keeps saying stuff like, we're not movers, and pointing at large pieces of furniture and saying, we can't take that. I'm not looking for a fight from people who take poor people stuff, so I say fine, take what you can. I think I'm pretty great for doing this, not only giving all this stuff to poor people that I will never meet, but for tolerating the angry skinny white guy sweating like a dog who doesn't want my poor people stuff anyway. Eventually, the skinny old white guy goes and hides in the truck, and I realize the only way I'm getting out of here is if I help the black guy, so I do. After a while, I tell the skinny old white guy to get out of the truck and help us, please, so he does, sort of. Finally, everything is in the truck, we're all sweating like dogs, and they have taken everything but the bed frame which is bolted to the headboard, a six-foot long sofa the color of a sorry turd, and a lamp that I need because otherwise there will be no light. The next day, a special delivery truck comes and takes all the garbage I left at the curb. I sit on the floor and think, I am going out the same way I came in.
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