We have too much stuff.
It migrates through the house.
It congregates on the kitchen counter, the dining table, all over my office, the dotter's bedroom.
It provides an excellent hiding place for growing dustbunnies.
It provides endless entertainment for the monster kitten.
(We are still finding Christmas ornaments. When MK starts batting something around the kitchen we discover it's one of the ornaments. Having had one of MK's accidental discoveries explode when he whapped it into a door, leaving billyuns and billyuns of teeny tiny glittery bits of glass in the carpet, I don't want any more. Please.)
My darling OmegaDad has a sad tendency to help accumulate more stuff. He likes to bring the dotter little cheap-o gifties from the gift shops when he's out in the field. As a result, we have more stuff.
The dotter brings home immense loads of artwork from preschool. As a result, we have more stuff.
I am so sick of stuff.
I have this burning (har) desire to toss a Molotov Cocktail into the front door as I leave for work one morning. Then, when the firemen called, I could say with horrified surprise: "OH, NO!" Then come back to a nice, clean, charred shell of a log home and contemplate...
NO MORE STUFF.
Then the insurance company (having magically missed the evidence of the Molotov Cocktail) would put us up in a swanky rental townhome while contractors swarmed like bees through the husk, redoing all the insides.
And we would return to all-new kitchen cabinets, appliances, closets (oh, Kozmik All, what I wouldn't give for closets!!!), and...
NO MORE STUFF.
The sad reality, though, is that as soon as the lovely newly refurbished innards were available to us, we would...collect more stuff. Sigh.
An intervention is in order.
At 1/07/2007 06:58:00 PM, said…