An Open Letter...

Dear Stuff....

We have had a long, glorious relationship. Perhaps that is why I feel I can speak freely now. You are driving me crazy. Really, certifiably crazy. My family can vouch for this.

You are everywhere I turn. The desk, the counter, the couch. This afternoon I sought respite in the one place I thought would be free of your persistent presence, but alas, there you were on the toilet seat.

I admit, it has not always been this way. There was a time when I looked upon you with desire. We were inseparable. Five moves, 3 states. It was you and me. Together. You were worth the extra long moving truck. the additional rent for an extra bedroom, the extra boxes and wrapping---just for you.

It was not in the forecast for us to remain that way. Really, the forecast is at fault Hurricane Rita changed us. I left you behind during our flight (or crawl, as the case may be) and upon my return, things were ... different. You looked different. Felt different. You hadn't made the cut. You were not in the trunk. You weren't "needed," "necessary," or "important." You were left behind. Had the winds not shifted, that could have been the end of you then.

Have you felt my gaze? I often look at you and wonder why we have been together all these years. Upbringing? Yes, I admit, I was reared with stuff. Lots of it. Trinkets galore. A Pledge-dusters dream. But I swore you off. I declared myself liberated, yet there (and there, and there, and there...) you are. I wondered if you were fulfilling some deeply repressed need in me. Did your presence make me feel loved? Secure? Safe? No, just irritated and annoyed.

I thought I had conquered you. I declared myself victorious. Trash! Goodwill! Salvation Army! There! Proper homes for you. Retrospectively, I see that my declaration was premature and I let down my guard. Did you creep back in? No. You are too vain for that. You hauled yourself in a UHaul. I felt your draining presence from the front seat of the SUV. You fed off of my energy across three states and two time zones, leaving me empty, decrepit, languid....

You are my thief. You steal my time, my energy, my patience, my garage. I want them all back. Yes, including the garage. Both sides!

Yes, my stuff. We must part. It's for the best. You deserve a proper resting place, someone who truly loves you; or at least doesn't view you as a plague. I bid you adieu, auf wiedersehen, sayonara, buh-bye. There is no sentimentality left that can save our relationship. Please accept your fate and move on...and out....forever....

Freely....Shelly