A tribute to crap

Once again, our home is fortified with boxes.

Ah, the memories.

I remember that for a very long time, a decade surely, when I used to live out of boxes.

From the day I left home the proverbial country bumpkin to chase the big city lights (when what I should’ve been doing was hitting the books), I moved no lesser than ten times in 16 years.

I left with two bags, a box and my ‘lovey’ pillow (left it behind at my ex-boyfriend’s house when I stormed out. Hope you choked and died on my cooties, you bastard). I moved into my husband’s home with roughly 20 boxes. Our family of four arrived in the US with no less than 89 boxes. And that’s not including the stuff we brought on the plane. AND the stuff we left back home in a store.

Sigh. The crap you keep.

One thing I like here in the US are the garage/yard sales. You get to move your crap around. Redistribute your shit. What’s crap to you might be just the shit for me.

Which is good AND bad.

Back in Malaysia, common practice is we donate our crap to the Salvation Army or the many orphanages/buddhist temples. The problem is oftentimes (I’m not saying EVERYBODY does this, so kindly assume the ‘if the shoe fits’ mindset when reading ALL my posts), this pertains only to REAL crap. I am talking rags and plastic bags. Often with holes.

Yea, we don’t give crap away easily back home.

In perhaps two weeks, we will be moving our crap – some of which is the same crap I’ve been lugging around for 16 years – to our new home.

I’m looking forward to our first garage sale!