I Hate Stuff

But I love it.

Hi Cringers!

We’re packing everything we own to move right now.

My husband, Luke, is out grabbing a pizza, so taking a break to write this. Don’t tell him. We still have the other half of the place to pack.

I keep sitting down and deactivating. 

Packing is so incredibly boring. Also, why do we have so many things?

Humans are disgusting.

Here is a list of things I’ve packed already:

Cups, plates, tableware, pictures, tchotchkes, clothes, shoes, electronics, wall hangings, office supplies, printer, paper, art stuff, cat stuff, two instant pots, and our chests of gold (lol, jk!).

The other day Luke told me that we could have it worse. We could be moving with oxen and covered wagons and whatnot.

And, yeah, I’m sure it took those people forever to go like ten miles—stampeding livestock, lightning, gunpowder explosions, drowning at river crossings, Cholera, and other figurative and literal bumps in the road, but people didn’t own anything back then! They had like one old dusty Bible and some cotton bonnets. They were probably done packing in five minutes.

Something about having stuff and having to contain it, move it, and live with it is overwhelming.

I’m tempted to do the minimalist lifestyle where we own one spork, one black turtleneck, a Kindle, and a water bottle, oh, and a toothbrush, and also my computer, and phone, and maybe one extra pair of comfy pants, and some tea, and that fancy face lotion I got from Etsy, but THAT’S IT! 

What is it about stuff?

My only recurring nightmares have to do with packing things, forgetting things, and losing luggage. I’m usually on my way to the airport, or leaving a hotel, or late to catch a bus, or a train, or a moped and am freaking out in the dream about where my suitcase is, or whether or not I packed everything, or how come I can’t get off this elevator, and why is my vision blurry?

I’m over stuff and I’m over dreams.

And I’m over this post.

Goodnight.