Some people duck into bathrooms to snort lines of coke. Other people "borrow" an Oxy from Grandma's medicine cabinet. And yet some hoard Percoset from their own surgeries (or even the surgeries of others) for that special floaty magically delicious high.
What do I do? I throw things away. I adore cleaning out closets and pantries in order to throw away things. The ultimate goal is, of course, organizational perfection which brings me little snippets of high beyond the immediate orgasmic moment of The Purge. When I walk by and notice my recent handiwork, I get a little burst of pride along with a tiny dollop of shame.
I can't really explain it. Perhaps it's a small but manageable manifestation of OCD. I haven't browsed through the DSM to determine if this is a diagnosable disorder. If we're going to get psychobabble-logical here, I suspect it has to do with my deep-seated desire for order and neatness. Because even if life takes a nosedive, I still have an orderly closet and there is something weirdly comforting about that. When Armageddon comes, I know exactly where my el-wire kitty ears are. If I had my way, the world would be organized Bat Cave style - neatly printed labels on absolutely everything.
Edward (with Stuart chiming in right behind him) claims that I buy things for the sole purpose of throwing them away. This is not true. There is the retail thrill of getting something new. Then there is the settling-in process of said new item. The item is used, worn or otherwise violated. Finally, there is the moment where no-longer-new-item lands in the donation pile thus releasing many happy chemicals in my brain. The space where donated-item used to live is currently vacant and ready for new and untold retail goodness. It's all quite simple. And it brings me immeasurable pleasure.
I don't think there's any real danger to my... "addiction." (Now it sounds all trendy.) I rarely regret tossing an item and I haven't let it get out of hand. Although, I suppose there could be the day when Edward comes home to find me sitting in the middle of the empty living room with just my toothbrush. That would be a reasonable justification for an intervention although I WILL NOT go into a hoarder's home. I can't even watch the hoarding shows without getting twitchy and can barely contain my urge to yell "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO EVER NEED 65 PRECIOUS MOMENTS FIGURINES. EVER. THEY WOULDN'T EVEN ALL FIT IN YOUR CASKET." (But then, I am a terrible person and have low tolerance for clutter and excessive shit. And I think there's a special place in hell or Arkansas for figurine collectors. Because where else would they live?)
Next time I clean out my medicine cabinet, I will think sympathetically about those people with "real" problems. I do not have a problem, I do not have a problem, I do not have a.... wait. Give me that. It needs to go.
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