crap

i have been the recent recipient of 13 boxes of belongings that i put into storage all those many moons ago when i thought i was moving to canada.

all those many moons ago when i was packing these belongings, i paid no attention to whether these things actually needed to be my belongings or whether, in fact, they would be more at home in the bin.

(i think that was my 'drunk for six months' stage)

i am a hoarder; a self-confessed, irrational, impractical hoarder.

thus, last weekend saw me sifting through boxes and boxes of utter crap, looking for that diamond in the rough which might (in part) justify me having kept all that crap. i found many things which made me laugh out loud, some that made me feel like crying and some that found me rushing to the garbage chute to dispose of immediately before anyone else saw them

(mental note: if you are going to keep photos of you 'in the act' make an effort to remember where it is you are going to keep them, lest they turn up unexpectedly and take you by surprise in the presence of your current boyfriend.)

i cursed at a lot of the crap that i kept but when it came down to it, could not bring myself to throw it all out either.

the phone number of some random irish guy i shagged in scotland one night, the ticket to the sex pistols concert i went to on my 16th birthday, letters from friends 10 years ago soaked in the intensity of emotion that is really only available to 14 year old girls or those suffering from a mental illness, boots and clothes i will never wear again.

all these things make up my story, and i love that story.

sure i've made mistakes and have regrets, made clear through the beauty of hindsight, but in the end what of that would i throw away given the opportunity?

every misnomer, mistake, wrong decision and act of stupidity on my behalf has brought me to where i am today, and that's a pretty good place to be.

things could be better, but they could always be better.

i love my crap and the way a simple written note can bring

me to tears or send me into fits of laughter.

i know its means fuck all to anyone else but its mine and i'm keeping it...

and even though i never look at the stuff or really even know that i still own it,

it occupies a space in my heart (and a lot of space in my house)

*cue Barbara Streisand "Memories"*

hear that housemates?

can't argue with babs now can ya?

those drawers are mine and the crap is staying...

i love my crap.