You would never ever see a scattered pile of books (unorganized!) in my house.
You would never ever see a pile of books like this in my house. 

With the exception of books, I don’t keep things.

I can’t do, can’t deal with, clutter.

If I open the dreaded junk drawer in the kitchen and it’s looking full — and what junk drawer doesn’t look full? — I have to stifle the urge to drag over the trash bin and toss every last item out.  Out out out!

I don’t like knick-knacks, collections, souvenirs, trifles, sentimental doodads that that other people (normal people?) save all their lives.  I can’t work at a messy desk and, god almighty, I can’t stand piles of sweaters or jeans or socks or too many people or too much food on a table or too much “stuff” in one place.

If you really want to punish me, all you need do is plop me down with a weekend marathon of the show “Hoarders” or make me go to Costco or Walmart … … on a Saturday.

And yet.

There’s an irony here.  I don’t keep things, but I do save them.  I was talking with a friend the other day about how we — how I — “save” clothes.  How, if I have 4 sweaters in my closet, I’ll wear the same one over and over so other 3 will be clean and ready if and when I ever need them.  If I delete a paragraph, or a page, or an entire chapter from my book, I save it.  What if I need it later and it’s … holy all hell on earth … gone??

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Are you a saver?

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