Written as part of a blogging assignment for a class at Boston University in 2015, with the intention of continuing it in the future. View the original blog here.
Here’s the thing—I never asked to be a hoarder. Well, no one really asks to be a hoarder, but work with me here. I am the product of two generations of hoarders—my grandfather and my mother. I’m not going to bother going further back in history because this isn’t one of those interesting genetic traits one would want to discuss. Two generations is far enough in my opinion.
It all began the day my father first decided I was responsible enough to handle money. That first allowance led to ridiculous purchases—multiple Pokémon trading card packs and glitter pens by the cartful—and over time, these purchases (and some repeat purchases) have just grown weirder. In the last few years, for example, my affinity for pop culture references has given way to a particular proclivity for everything from pin badges to coasters with visual references to favorite TV shows, musicians, and movies. My small but proud collection of Beatles badges can vouch for that. I’ve never understood how and why I end up accumulating what I do. Yet it’s reached a point where I smuggle new purchases into the house, away from the prying eyes of my parents who have become rather familiar with my shopping habits, much to my disdain.
Again, why do I buy these things when I know, deep in my guilty, sorrowful soul that I don’t need them? To be fairly honest, I’m past the point of questioning and have moved on to the phase where want trumps need and cute trumps handy. I’m not even lying about that last bit—my recent trip to Boston’s Museum of Science saw me walking out with a soft toy of Sully from Monster’s Inc. I thought it would “look cute in my new room,” along with my newly acquired Mickey and pygmy puff soft toys.
Yes, I am 23 years old, and no, I have no regrets about coming home with that toy.
That last statement may just be the root cause of all my problems.