Dear Useless Junk

Dear Useless Junk,

Perhaps at first you thought those white plastic bags you’re in were part of a stretchy and misguided redecorating spree.  I don’t know how to say this nicely, but the reality is you simply can’t stay anymore.  I can’t spend another minute knowing that you’re filling my basement, falling out of drawers, and sprawling on my carpet waiting to be stepped on.  As long as I’m being honest, you could have made a better attempt at not being everywhere all at once and always sticking your pointiest parts upward. Intentionally.

Anyway, I’d like to address a few of you personally:

McDonald’s toys…I’d like to say its been fun.  But it hasn’t.  Either you play the same obnoxious sound strictly forever and ever, or you have one arm that moves thereby qualifying you as an “action figure”.  I’m not amused and you won’t be missed. Oh, did I hurt your feelings? Good.

Black bathroom curtain?  You were sweet and certainly made my awkward attempt at cohesive décor slightly successful. But you also blacked out the sun in a rather depressing way- especially once our vanity lights stopped working.  You also refused to hide the dust that you collected, and if you haven’t heard I’m not big on washing curtains.  No offense.  You’ll be happier elsewhere.

To the artwork that my children have created- you manipulative, guilt-trippy things.  I simply can’t keep all of you.  You’re adorable memories and I hate to squash you, but I fear one day my children will literally be squashed by the sheer volume of you.  So I had to choose between you or them.

To the books and papers I’ve held onto since highschool or college… it turns out I really can live without the complete works of Shakespeare and those random books I bought on sale at the college bookstore.  Don’t judge me.  It’s not that I’m done learning- but if I haven’t picked you up in a decade except to move you from house to house…well, you see my intellectual dilemma here.

To the three-tiered pink metal basket…you were incredibly useful for holding things, and I appreciate that about you.  But I realized that you were more of a holding cell for things that I was just too lazy to put in the right spot than an organizational wizard.  And I hate to be blunt, but you’re not all that attractive as a decorative piece.  So…happy hanging elsewhere, friend!

Sheets.  I’m not entirely sure how we ended up with all of you mismatched beauties.  I also don’t know how we manage to rip so many fitted sheets leaving the flat sheets widowed.  And at the risk of sounding callous, you really do work best a set.  And at my current rate of sheet rotation every…well, why don’t we keep that our little secret… we really don’t need that many of you.  It’s just life.

Clothes- where to start- I thought I liked you.  But some of you lied to me.  Some of you were all flattery in the store only to come home and awkwardly highlight fat I didn’t even know I had.  Others of you were so super cute and sexy that I forgot I’m a mom who still has to wear shorts under her skirts to avoid a three year old revealing my nethers to the world.  Others of you…well, let’s face it…we knew all along it wasn’t going to work and it just took two years of sticking you in a drawer for me to admit it.

Random blue shelf- I know math has never been your strong suit.  But it’s a simple equation- if Johnny has a bunch of things in a blue shelf and then Johnny gives all the things away- then Johnny doesn’t need a blue shelf. Except I’m Johnny, and it’s not math theory…so…see ya.  If you feel I’m being biased, just talk to pink basket.

To all of you, it’s incredibly selfish, but I must say that I’m breathing easier with you out.  I’m feeling a bit lighter.  I’m also occasionally having panic attacks at what would have happened if I never got rid of you…I’m also having periodic panic episodes over the fact that even AFTER getting rid of you I’m still finding bagfuls more to ditch.  Oooh…hold on…there’s another one. *breathe-breathe-breathe*.

Whew, where was I? Right. I wish you well in your new non-here homes.





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