I need a psychiatrist to explain to me why I always start throwing out crap whenever I watch Hoarders.
I don't even watch that show regularly, but whenever I turn it on and see someone find a dead cat buried until a mountain of trash in the hallway, or a bathroom that looks like someone opened their ass cheeks and sprayed all over the walls, I have to stop whatever I'm doing and clean something. It never fails.
Last time I did this, I threw out a bunch of stuff in my closet that I had forgotten was even there. None of that stuff was hurting anyone in the back of my closet, and since it's already packed tight, there was no need to even worry about it. It wasn't going anywhere. Well, not after I saw someone tear up their carpet to reveal the inner mold carpet underneath. I found a computer in my closet. A computer. And threw that shit in the trash.
I found that computer, an old laptop, hundreds of video tapes, a box of old computer wires, a DVD player that didn't work, a VCR that didn't work; okay, I didn't find it. I knew it was there, but like those people, I kept it for whatever reason. I had plans for it, I was going to fix it and use it, I was saving it for a rainy day, shit like that. And none of that is true, because I'm lazy. I'm not fixing a damn thing, or paying anyone else to do it, because the means I gotta get up and take it to the person who is industrious enough to fix it.
This isn't even the first time I've done it. Last time I watched Hoarders, I threw out a bunch of books, paper, two more unused computers that I planned to fix, and cleaned out my junk drawer. That's right, I had four unused computers in here at one time. Who the hell keeps that many unused computers around? I have a one-bedroom apartment, not a workshop in my garage. And say I did fix them. What was I going to do with them? They were all old as shit. The reason why they were unused is because they were all too old to upgrade.
Maybe I do this because I fear becoming one of these people. It's not like I don't have the packrat gene. I've always liked keeping everything. And every so often, when my room got to the point where it looked like one of those houses on TV, my mom would give me about three hours to get my shit organized. I would fail, because I was easily distracted and overly sentimental about scrap paper with superheroes scribbled on it. My mom would come in about an hour early with a garbage bag, because she could see that I was just wallowing in my own filth, and throw out everything. If I wasn't using it, it was gone.
Eventually, I would move out and I was free to keep all the useless junk I wanted. And I did. I mean, it was organized, to some degree, because I could bring over females and they would actually take their shoes off. I didn't keep a nasty house, just a cluttered one.
Then, they put that show on the air. And not only that, I actually started visiting houses like those as part of my job. Those people have a million excuses for why their houses look like that. "Oh, you just caught me in the middle of cleaning up." "Oh, we're just getting back from vacation." "It's the kids, they won't clean up." "I can't stop the cats from pissing everywhere." No matter how damaged their homes were, there was an excuse for why it was like that. Like I'm stupid or something. If there's a well worn path through the chaos, then that means you always live like this.
One lady couldn't even give an excuse. She just sat on a chair in the hallway and stared at the mountain of stuff that filled up her living room. Another lady was basically just like, "fuck it, just step on my mattress, because I have nowhere else for you to stand." The excuses all sounded just like the ones I gave my mom, and worse yet, the ones I told myself. Except those last two ladies. They had just given the fuck up.
So watching Hoarders or being in those houses made me itch. Seriously. I felt like I needed to clean up something, so I didn't wind up being buried in garbage. While it's funny to watch some sad sack on TV talk about how they had to buy a hot plate for the living room because they couldn't get into their kitchen anymore, it is a fear of mine to wind up like that, dying alone in my house because no one could get to me. So if I was still at work, I'd clean out my truck. I had to do something to prove to myself that even though I'm a packrat, I'm not like them. I can't be like them. I refuse to be like them.
Okay, so maybe I don't need the psychiatrist to explain it. The truth is, I'm a giant pussy.
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