I’ve been spending the majority of my time this last week giving my apartment a much needed cleaning of the under-the-microwave, back-of-the-closet variety. I was inspired partially by the recent move of two dear friends and the looming start of another busy semester. Nothing spectacular to report except that I was confronted again by the fact that I’m a champion pack-rat of a particularly bizarre nature.

From my father I inherited the need to save everything just in case. But from my mother I inherited my knack for anthropomorphizing inanimate objects to the point that I feel bad for getting rid of them. I actually get concerned about hurting the feelings of my mugs that have been with me for 10 years. I worry that maybe they know that they’ve been replaced by newer, matchy-er mugs and that might give them a complex.  Or maybe that set of towels is going to be resentful that I ditched them and kept the other set.  So I find myself explaining my reasoning to these things as I pack them away so that they at least have some context to work with. I know. Nutso.

The reason I know this comes from my mother is that I have actually witnessed her telling — out loud — a doll not to be scared when the box closes, because even though it will be dark, it will be OK and that the doll should just go to sleep. I am not making this up.

See, at least I come by my weirdness honestly.

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