I get ridiculously attached to things. I mean, ridiculously.
Here is how ridiculously: I am delaying going to goodwill to donate things, because one of the things I need to donate is a bar stool that I originally bought at goodwill that I have been using as a bedside table. Yes, the top of it is too small. Yes, things fall off of it all the time. And yes, I feel guilty about getting rid of it.
Even more ridiculously: I have this box that I used two, maybe three times, going back and forth to Rwanda, and then again moving to Gone West. It is one of the boxes that my organization sold: the perfect dimensions to maximize your luggage allowance. It has my name and Michigan address on it, and my sister's name and Michigan address, and my name and Rwanda address, and my name and Gone West address, and I cannot bear to get rid of it.
I am now clinging to cardboard boxes because they have some meaning to me. I think they have medication for this.
Here is how ridiculously: I am delaying going to goodwill to donate things, because one of the things I need to donate is a bar stool that I originally bought at goodwill that I have been using as a bedside table. Yes, the top of it is too small. Yes, things fall off of it all the time. And yes, I feel guilty about getting rid of it.
Even more ridiculously: I have this box that I used two, maybe three times, going back and forth to Rwanda, and then again moving to Gone West. It is one of the boxes that my organization sold: the perfect dimensions to maximize your luggage allowance. It has my name and Michigan address on it, and my sister's name and Michigan address, and my name and Rwanda address, and my name and Gone West address, and I cannot bear to get rid of it.
I am now clinging to cardboard boxes because they have some meaning to me. I think they have medication for this.
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