It’s 1:03am, Saturday morning, two days before my twenty eighth birthday. I spent the day at home watching tv on the internet and eating chocolate chips. It hasn’t been a good year.

So I’m lying in bed, my heart tripping on a sugar high, thinking about what I need to do to change my life. There’s that nagging voice in my head, telling me that all I need to do to find happiness is to accept myself as I am. Then there’s that other voice saying bullshit–you need a big idea. You need to do something.

I used to be the kind of person who did things, I think. Or maybe I’m being nostalgic and rosy past tense. But anyway, this isn’t working. Something has to change. It’s hard to know where to start. Nothing is in order–not my body, not my mind, not my spirit, certainly not my apartment.

My apartment. Something tangible. A very obvious problem with a fairly obvious solution. Time to clean up some shit. That’s not really a metaphor (also, a gigantic black spider just crawled across my sight-line, so I’m not sleeping any time soon).

So here’s my big idea. It is within my power to change my living space, and this is how I should do it. Without being ridiculously minimalistic, I need to reduce the number of things in my possession (or at least, my sightline). If I have access to less stuff, I will make less mess. Less mess, more happiness. Or something.

I’m not a big fan of melodramatic gestures. Or rather, I love them, but they’re useless for producing real change. Then again, sometimes you just have to jump in.

Someone pass the garbage can.

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