Monday, August 20, 2007


I'm a hoarder. I like, no, love hoarding things as if the holocaust will descend on me tomorrow. This habit might be a useful thing if the things I hoard can be used to help me survive in a holocaust, but no. Can 200 odd books, a closet full of clothes, art supplies, make-up and tons of paper shield me from radioactive fallout and the decline of civilization? A rugby boy would have a better chance in hell.

I do it unconsciously. Last time I had a really bad itch, I went to two second-hand bookstores and ended up blowing my dough on fifteen books, three of which I think I haven't even read yet. It wasn't a planned thing, really. I saw one book by Alduous Huxley, and then another by H.P. Lovecraft, and I was lost. A sales lady looked at my pile increduously and asked whether I'm doing it for a school requirement. Of course I wasn't, and it gave me a smug pleasure to say it. I love reading, and I'm rather proud of it.

I don't like throwing things away even if the chance of them being useful is as thin as an anorexic. I rationalize and rationalize and put off throwing my junk until they pile up in my room and eventually gather a thin film of dust. I have a tendency to hold on obstinately to my material belongings and why? I don't know. All I know is that I'll feel bad if I won't ever see them again.


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