Buried in Boxes

It's odd knowing that my nights in the apartment are numbered. Four nights from now I'll be sleeping in the new place, my first house -- our first home together, Allison and I. While it will be a few weeks before the us part kicks in, it's still great. Not so much the moving part. But the rest, definitely.

The side effect all this is that the current pad is riddled with boxes. The former serenity has been shattered, and it's becoming difficult to cross the apartment without colliding with cardboard. I don't have much stuff, granted, but I don't have much space either. When you utilize drawers, cabinets and closets five-hundred square feet goes a long way. When you don't...

My question is where does all this stuff come from? I'm at the point in the packing that all that's left are odds and ends. The exceptions -- stuff that doesn't belong in any other box. I don't know where half of it came from. Even amongst the stuff I can categorize and sort there's weird stuff.

...when you buy furniture, you tell yourself: that's it, that's the last sofa I'm gonna need. No matter what else happens, I've got that sofa problem handled. I had it all. I had a stereo that was very decent, a wardrobe that was getting very respectable. I was so close to being complete.

I have a turkey baster. Never in my life have I had a need for one. Not once have I gone, "Hmm, I wish I had a turkey baster." It wasn't a gift, I didn't purchase it, it's not stolen. It's just here.

The funny part: it went into a box.